WHITAKER'S  DUKEDOM 


WHITAKER'S  DUKEDOM 


By 

EDGAR  JEPSON 


Author  of 

POLLYOOLY,  THE  TERRIBLE  TWINS 
THE  INTERVENING  LADY,  ETC. 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 
THZ  BOBBS-MEKRILL  COMPANY 


PRESS     OF 

BRAUNWORTH    &    CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN.    N.    V. 


WHITAKER'S  DUKEDOM 


2136346 


WHITAKER'S  DUKEDOM 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  dust  lay  very  thick  on  the  glaring  white 
road;  the  hedges  were  gray  with  it;  and  the 
trees  of  the  wood  were  gray  with  it  for  fifteen  feet 
above  the  hedges.  It  had  been  thrown  to  that  height 
by  the  hasty  motorist,  for  the  road  from  Lanchester 
to  Bartle's  End  is  a  short  cut  much  affected  by  him 
on  his  way  to  the  North  or  the  South.  Also,  running 
as  it  does  through  the  Quentin  Abbey  estate  of  the 
Duke  of  Lanchester,  and  affording  many  views  of  that 
noble  eighteenth-century  building,  the  Abbey  itself, 
it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  roads  in  the  Midlands. 

The  motorist  in  his  haste  loses  much  of  this  beauty ; 
but  James  Whitaker,  though  he  was  now  walking 
slowly  enough,  was  losing  it  all.  He  trudged  along 
wearily,  his  eyes  fixed  for  the  most  part  on  the  dust  a 
few  feet  ahead  of  him,  giving  the  least  possible  heed 
to  the  beauties  of  the  country  through  which  he  was 
passing;  his  dusty  ears  deaf  to  the  song  of  the  birds 
in  the  wood;  his  nostrils  dulled  by  the  dust  which 
clogged  them  to  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers  which 
hung  on  the  heavy  air. 

He  had  walked  nearly  thirty  miles  along  dusty 
roads  since  breakfast;  and  his  feet  were  sore  in  his 

I 


2  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

boots,  of  the  shape  and  quality  supplied  by  the  stern 
contractor  to  the  British  private  soldier,  and  known 
as  army  bluchers.  James  Whitaker  had  bought  them 
out  of  a  job  lot,  at  a  boot  shop  in  the  Vauxhall  Road, 
for  a  dollar  and  a  quarter.  He  had  been  pleased 
with  his  purchase,  for  he  was  sure  that  they  would  last 
him  for  years.  But  he  had  not  expected  them  to  be 
comfortable ;  and  they  had  never  belied  his  expectation. 
He  was  not  only  weary  but  dejected;  and  much  of 
his  weariness  sprang  from  that  dejection.  The  day 
before  he  had  come  down  by  train  into  the  country  to 
seek  help.  His  small  business  of  dealer  in  second-hand 
furniture  and  curiosities,  in  Watergate  Street,  Ham- 
mersmith, was  starving  for  want  of  capital;  and  he 
had  come  down  to  try  to  borrow  five  hundred  dollars 
from  his  uncle,  Robert  Unwin,  a  well-to-do  farmer  at 
Bowdeswell. 

He  had  failed  in  the  attempt.  His  well-to-do  un- 
cle, a  bachelor,  could  well  have  lent  him  the  five  hun- 
dred dollars ;  and  since  James  Whitaker's  father,  in  his 
earlier,  affluent  days,  had  lent  Robert  Unwin  the  money 
to  stock  the  farm  out  of  which  he  had  so  prospered, 
James  felt  that  he  had  a  genuine  claim  on  him.  More- 
over, he  had  been  able  to  offer  him  security  in  the  form 
of  a  fifteen-hundred-dollar  life  insurance  policy  on 
which  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  had  been  already 
paid.  But  Robert  Unwin  had  always  been  a  close- 
fisted  man;  and  years  had  abated  neither  his  avarice 
nor  his  caution.  There  had  been  a  stern  contest  of 
wills,  for  James  Whitaker  was  not  the  man  to  be 
easily  turned  aside  from  his  purpose;  but  in  the  end 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  3; 

he  had  failed  to  bend  his  uncle's  stubborn  resolve  not 
to  risk  his  money. 

Not  only  was  the  failure  to  borrow  the  five  hundred 
dollars  rankling  in  James  Whitaker's  heart,  but  also 
the  grudging  and  niggardly  hospitality  he  had  received 
from  his  uncle.  Robert  Unwin  had  welcomed  him 
with  a  glum  coldness  and  given  him  cold  bacon  and 
bread  and  dripping  and  tea  for  supper,  and  cold  bacon 
and  bread  and  dripping  and  tea  for  breakfast.  It 
made  no  difference  to  James  that  this  was  his  thrifty 
uncle's  perpetual  fare.  There  were  many  eatable 
lambs  in  his  uncle's  fields,  many  eatable  and  certainly 
egg-laying  chickens  in  his  farmyard,  many  pans  of 
cream  in  his  dairy;  and  James  Whitaker  felt  that  this 
was  indeed  shabby  treatment  to  accord  to  one's  only 
kinsman,  the  son,  too,  of  one's  only  benefactor.  But  he 
had  received  the  refusal  to  lend  the  five  hundred  dol- 
lars and  the  niggardly  hospitality  with  no  display  of  the 
anger  he  felt,  for,  after  all,  he  was  his  uncle's  natural 
heir;  and  he  did  not  wish  to  endanger  his  possible, 
even  probable,  inheritance. 

Now,  late  in  the  afternoon,  that  cold  bacon  and 
that  dripping  rankled  in  his  breast  almost  more  bitterly; 
than  his  failure  to  borrow  the  five  hundred  dollars. 
He  trudged  along  at  loggerheads  with  fortune. 

He  looked,  too,  at  loggerheads  with  fortune:  his 
cheap,  ill-fitting  frock  coat  of  the  small  tradesman, 
so  incongruous  with  the  wood  through  which  he 
trudged,  sagged  away  from  his  well-built  figure  in  a 
distressing  and  dispirited  fashion;  and  the  soft  felt 
hat,  which  marked  the  artistic  tradesman,  looked  shab- 


4  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

bier  than  ever  under  its  layer  of  dust.  His  lips  were 
set  grimly,  and  his  square  chin  was  thrust  doggedly 
forward  as  his  shoulders  drooped  in  his  weariness.  His 
dark  gray  eyes,  sunk  under  his  jutting  brows,  were 
sullen  and  gloomy,  and  when  now  and  again  he  raised 
them  from  the  dust  through  which  his  feet  were  drag- 
ging, he  scowled  at  the  livid  thunder-cloud  which  was 
moving  slowly  forward  above  the  wood  to  meet  him. 

He  was  walking  the  thirty-seven  miles  from  Bowdes- 
well  to  Lanchester  to  save  seventy-five  cents  of  his 
railway  fare  back  to  London.  He  would  not  wear 
away  above  five  cents'  worth  of  the  soles  of  his  army 
bluchers  on  that  walk;  but  if  he  were  to  get  a 
drenching,  he  could  not  estimate  the  damage  to  his 
clothes  at  much  less  than  fifty  cents;  and  it  was  a 
bitter  thought  that  he  should  be  walking  thirty-seven 
miles  to  save  twenty  cents. 

Then,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  scowl  once  more  at 
the  thunder-cloud,  a  heavy  rain-drop,  precursor  of  the 
storm,  splashed  on  his  cheek. 

"Damn!"  he  cried,  and  halted. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  considering  what  to  do, 
then  ran  for*a  gate  in  the  hedge  twenty  yards  down 
the  road,  scrambled  heavily  over  it,  and  hurried  up 
the  broad  aisle  of  the  wood  in  a  vague  hope  of  find- 
ing shelter  in  some  keeper's  hut.  Failing  that,  he 
must  find  a  tree  with  thick  enough  branches  to  save 
him  from  the  worst  of  the  coming  downpour. 

He  had  gone  some  fifty  yards  up  the  aisle  when  a 
shout  behind  him  made  him  turn  sharply ;  and  he  saw 
a  man  climbing  over  the  gate  into  the  wood.  He  stood 


LWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  5 

still,  hesitating;  and  the  man  shouted  again.  It 
sounded  like  "Come  out  of  it!"  Then  a  sudden,  poor 
man's  panic  seized  James  Whitaker.  He  had  the 
townsman's  ignorance  of  the  law  of  trespass;  he  saw 
himself  involved  in  trouble  with  the  police,  embar- 
rassed by  a  fine  and  costs.  He  saw  the  man  begin  to 
run;  he  turned  and  ran  himself.  As  he  ran,  he  was 
vaguely  conscious  that  the  figure  of  his  pursuer  was 
familiar  to  him.  The  man  shouted  again:  "Come 
back,  you !"  The  voice  sounded  nearer ;  and  he  looked 
over  his  shoulder  to  see  that  the  man  was  indeed 
nearer.  At  the  sight  he  lost  his  head  utterly,  and 
rushed  on  as  fast  as  he  could  pelt.  He  had  gone  some 
two  hundred  yards  when  he  found  his  weariness  and 
his  army  bluchers  already  telling  on  him;  he  was 
flagging.  Then  he  saw  a  narrow  path  on  the  left,  lead- 
ing into  the  heart  of  the  wood.  In  the  hope  of  finding 
a  hiding-place,  he  bolted  down  it,  or  rather  up  it,  for 
ten  yards  from  the  edge  of  the  aisle  it  began  to  rise. 
He  had  gone  up  it  but  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  when 
he  found  himself  nearly  done,  panting  heavily,  his  feet 
grown  leaden.  He  was  in  no  condition  to  race  uphill, 
in  heavy  boots,  in  that  stifling  heat.  Behind  him  he 
could  hear  the  footfall  of  his  gaining  pursuer,  growing 
louder.  It  was  quicker  and  lighter  than  his  own :  the 
man  was  not  wearing  army  bluchers ;  and  he  had  not 
walked  thirty  miles. 

James  Whitaker  ran  stubbornly  on  for  seventy  more 
yards;  then,  gasping  heavily,  he  came  stumbling  out 
of  the  end  of  the  path  on  to  a  little  plateau  on  the  top 
of  the  hill  he  had  mounted.  It  was  grass-grown  and 


6  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

some  fifty  yards  across;  and  in  the  middle  of  it,  with 
spreading  boughs  that  stretched  across  it  from  side 
to  side,  stood  a  great  oak.  He  plunged  on  a  few  yards, 
realized  that  he  was  nearly  at  the  end  of  his  breath, 
turned  and  fell  into  the  boxer's  posture  of  defense, 
resolved,  like  the  cornered  rat  he  was,  to  make  a 
fight  for  it. 

His  pursuer  ran  out  from  the  trees,  pulled  up  short 
five  yards  away,  and  stood  before  him — another 
panting,  glaring  James  Whitaker! 

They  stood  facing  each  other,  wide-eyed,  open- 
mouthed  in  glaring  astonishment,  their  arms  fallen 
to  their  sides,  their  heads  jutted  forward,  over- 
whelmed in  wonder  at  their  amazing  resemblance. 

Then  the  pursuer  gasped:  "Doubles!  Well!  I'm 
.  .  .  What?  .  .  .  .Who?  .  .  .  What  the 
devil?" 

Then  there  was  nothing — nothing  for  either  of 
them;  no  turf,  no  wood,  no  earth,  no  sky.  They  did 
not  hear  the  sharp  rattling  crash  of  thunder  above 
their  heads;  they  did  not  see  the  flash  which  struck 
them. 

The  next  thing  that  James  Whitaker  knew  was 
that  he  had  a  splitting  headache.  Then  he  knew  that 
he  was  chilled  and  cold.  It  was  painful  to  open  his 
eyes;  and  they  blinked  round  at  a  world  he  did  not 
recognize.  Then  he  looked  up  and  saw  the  great 
branches  of  the  oak  spreading  above  him;  and  at  the 
sight  of  them  came  back  very  clearly  the  sight  of  his 
double  standing  facing  him  with  glaring  eyes.  He 
sat  up  and  gazed  round  him.  Yes,  it  was  no  dream; 


LWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  7 

his  double  lay  on  the  spot  where  he  had  been  standing, 
stretched  at  full  length  on  his  face. 

James  Whitaker  stared  at  him  stupidly;  then  it 
grew  clear  to  him  that  they  must  have  been  lying  there 
some  time,  for  he  was  drenched  to  the  skin,  and  the 
thunder-cloud  had  passed  over  the  little  hill,  though 
the  rain  from  its  backmost  edge  was  still  falling  on 
it.  He  puzzled  dully  over  what  could  have  happened 
to  them ;  then  of  a  sudden  it  flashed  on  him  that  they 
had  been  struck  by  lightning. 

The  knowledge  startled  him  and  cleared  his  wits. 
He  scrambled  quickly,  but  stiffly,  to  his  feet,  and  stared 
round  him  wildly.  The  light  of  the  westerly  sun  was 
throwing  a  bright  rainbow  on  the  black  thunder-cloud 
moving  away  over  the  woods.  He  rubbed  his  cold 
wet  hand  over  his  cold  wet  forehead  and  eyes  in  a 
somewhat  dazed  fashion.  He  shivered  with  the  cold 
of  his  drenching. 

Then  he  went  slowly  to  his  double,  bent  down  and 
turned  him  over  gently  on  to  his  back.  He  started  up 
in  horror.  The  flash  which  had  knocked  him  senseless 
had  burned  and  seared  and  twisted  his  double's  face. 
It  was  no  longer  the  face  of  another  James  Whitaker ; 
indeed,  it  was  no  longer  a  human  face.  It  recalled  to 
him  one  of  the  hideous  Japanese  masks  he  had  some- 
times handled  in  his  business. 

He  stepped  back,  shuddering.  Then  he  realized 
that  the  unfortunate  man  had  felt  no  pain;  that  he  had 
no  more  known  what  had  befallen  him  than  he  had 
known  himself;  that,  in  this  world,  he  never  would 
know. 


8  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

None  the  less,  he  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  that 
(distorted  face ;  and  he  turned  the  dead  man  over  again 
so  that  it  was  hidden.  Then  he  walked  aimlessly  to 
the  entrance  of  the  path  up  which  they  had  come 
and  stared  aimlessly  down  it.  He  shivered  again. 
Stiffly  he  took  off  his  coat  and  shook  it ;  then  he  put  it 
on  again.  He  kept  his  back  turned  to  his  dead  double. 
He  stood  hesitating  what  to  do.  He  thought  that  he 
ought  to  go  to  find  a  keeper  or  some  one,  and  tell  him 
what  had  happened.  It  would  be  tiresome:  there 
would  be  an  inquest,  and  he  would  probably  have  to 
give  evidence.  It  would  mean  loss  of  time  and  ex- 
pense. Still  it  had  to  be  done. 

He  came  back  to  fetch  his  hat,  which  lay  under  the 
tree  on  the  other  side  of  the  dead  man.  He  made  a 
circuit  which  kept  him  three  yards  away  from  the 
body.  He  picked  up  the  sopping  hat,  and  shook  it, 
and  beat  it  against  his  thigh.  He  put  it  on  and  stood 
still,  gazing  at  the  dead  man. 

A  curiosity  was  invading  him  to  know  who  his 
double  had  been :  from  his  clothes  he  was  a  gentleman. 
Well,  he  would  know  soon  enough.  It  was  clear  that 
he  belonged  to  the  neighborhood,  or  he  would  not  have 
chased  a  trespasser.  Perhaps  he  was  the  owner  of  the 
wood.  The  keeper,  if  he  found  one,  would  be  sure 
to  recognize  him. 

He  took  two  or  three  steps,  past  the  dead  man,  to- 
ward the  path ;  then  he  paused  and  looked  at  the  body 
again.  His  curiosity  had  suddenly  grown  keen  and 
intense;  he  wanted  to  know  now — at  once — who  was 
this  man  who  had  been  so  like  him. 


JWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  9 

He  cast  a  searching,  suspicious  glance  round  the 
little  plateau  and  over  the  wood,  as  if  he  felt  it  not 
quite  right  that  he  should  gratify  his  curiosity.  Then 
he  came  back  gingerly  to  the  body  and  bent  down  over 
it.  He  did  not  turn  it  right  over,  for  he  could  not  en- 
dure to  see  again  the  dreadful  face.  He  raised  it, 
keeping  its  back  toward  him,  on  its  left  side  a  few 
inches,  and  slipped  his  hand  into  the  breast  pocket  of 
the  coat.  He  found  in  it  a  silver  cigarette-case  and 
two  letters  in  their  envelopes.  He  gasped  when  he 
saw  that  they  were  addressed  to  the  Duke  of  Lan- 
chester.  Then  he  saw  that  a  coronet  was  engraved 
on  the  cigarette-case,  a  coronet  decorated  with  straw- 
berry-leaves. The  dead  man  must  be  the  Duke  of 
Lanchester  himself. 

James  Whitaker  took  the  letters  out  of  their  en- 
velopes. One  began  "My  dear  Duke,"  and  was  signed 
"Anne."  The  other  began  "My  dear  Lanchester," 
and  was  signed  "Herbert."  The  letter  signed  "Anne" 
was  certainly  not  the  kind  of  a  letter  one  would  leave 
in  the  hand  of  one's  secretary :  it  was  a  love-letter. 
The  dead  man  must  be  the  duke. 

James  Whitaker  stood  staring  down  at  him.  .  .  . 
So  his  double  had  been  a  duke.  .  .  .  He  frowned 
at  the  dead  man's  back  at  the  thought  of  the  soft  and 
easy  life  the  duke  had  led,  while  he  himself  had  been 
struggling  all  the  years  so  hard  and  so  painfully.  Some 
people  were  born  lucky.  .  .  .  He  stared  at  the 
dead  man's  back  enviously:  that  was  his  own  ear, 
though  not  so  red  .  .  .  and  that  was  the  very  way 
his  own  hair  grew  in  the  back  of  his  neck.  .  .  . 


10  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

[Why,  there  was  no  difference  at  all  between  them. 
.  .  .  "Yes :  some  people  did  have  all  the  luck. 

.     .     They  were  born  with  it." 

His  face  cleared  a  little  as  the  thought  came  to 
him  that,  after  all,  the  duke  was  dead,  and  his  luck 
at  an  end. 

"Better  a  living  furniture  dealer  than  a  dead  duke," 
he  muttered,  with  a  touch  of  staginess  quite  foreign 
to  his  simple  nature,  the  result,  perhaps,  of  shock 
from  the  lightning-stroke. 

Again  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  aching  forehead 
and  eyes.  The  ache  prevented  him  from  thinking 
clearly.  Then,  mechanically,  he  opened  the  cigarette- 
case,  took  out  a  gold-tipped  cigarette,  and  after  a  little 
difficulty  with  his  damp  matches,  lighted  it.  It  was 
such  a  cigarette  as  he  had  never  smoked;  he  had  not 
known  that  there  was  such  tobacco.  Without  thinking, 
he  put  the  cigarette-case  in  his  pocket.  He  grabbed 
it  out  again :  that  would  never  do !  He  must  not  rob 
a  dead  man !  He  stooped  down  and  put  the  cigarette- 
case  and  the  letters  back  into  the  breast  pocket  of  the 
duke's  coat.  Then  he  reflected  that,  after  all,  it  could 
matter  nothing  to  the  dead  duke;  but  he  left  the  cig- 
arette-case in  his  pocket. 

The  cigarette  seemed  to  be  soothing  his  aching  head 
a  little.  But  a  heavy  lassitude  was  stealing  over  him. 
He  did  not  start  off  to  find  a  keeper.  He  looked  wear- 
ily round  the  plateau ;  then  he  looked  again  at  the  dead 
man.  The  still  inert  body  held  his  eye.  He  wondered 
idly  what  it  was  like  to  be  a  duke :  it  must  be  a  wonder- 
ful feeling  to  be  always  easy  in  one's  mind  about 


II 

money.  .  .  .  And  then  to  be  able  to  go  where 
you  liked.  .  .  .  To  the  Continent.  .  .  .  And 
do  whatV°u  liked  without  ever  thinking  of  the  ex- 
pense. .  .  .  Yes,  it  must  be  wonderful. 

Well,  that  was  all  over  for  the  duke. 

How  unfair  it  all  was;  that  one  man  should  have 
everything,  and  so  many  hundreds  nothing.  .  .  . 
He  would  have  made  quite  as  good  a  duke  as  the 
dead  man;  he  was  sure  of  it  .  .  .  and  he  would 
never  have  thrown  away  that  splendid  luck  by  getting 
struck  by  that  lightning.  .  .  .  He  would  never 
have  gone  out  of  his  way  to  chase  a  trespasser  through 
the  wood.  .  .  .  What  harm  could  any  one  do  in 
a  wood?  .  .  .  No,  he  was  not  the  kind  of  man 
to  bother  about  such  a  thing.  .  .  .  He  was  not 
the  man  to  pay  a  keeper  to  do  his  work,  and  then  do 
it  for  him.  .  .  .  Evidently  the  duke  had  not  been 
like  him  in  mind  .  .  .  but  how  astonishingly  like 
him  he  was,  or  had  been,  in  body ! 

He  started  back  a  pace;  then  he  began  to  tremble. 
A  thought,  a  great  thought  had  suddenly  flashed  into 
his  mind :  why  should  he  not  turn  this  likeness  to  ac- 
count? The  thought  set  his  mind  whirling. 

Presently  it  grew  steady  again.  Yes,  why  shouldn't 
he  make  use  of  the  likeness  ?  .  .  .  Just  to  see  for 
himself  what  it  was  like  to  be  a  duke.  .  .  .  Just 
to  see  what  it  felt  like.  .  .  .  Just  for  once  to 
have  two  or  three  splendid  days  free  from  all  worry 
about  money.  ...  It  wouldn't  do  anybody  any 
harm.  .  .  .  He  would  just  have  a  splendid  time 
for  two  or  three  days  and  then  disappear.  .  .  . 


.12  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

The  duke's  body  wouldn't  -be  found  for  two  or  three 
days.  .  .  .  Besides,  it  wouldn't  matter  if  it  was, 
since  no  one  would  ever  recognize  that  dreadful  face. 

He  certainly  could  do  it.  ...  It  was  just  a 
matter  of  putting  on  the  duke's  clothes.  .  .  .  The 
likeness  would  do  the  rest. 

He  hesitated,  looking  down  on  the  dead  man  with 
troubled  eyes  in  a  doubtful  face,  gnawing  his  thumb. 
It  would  be  horrible  stripping  him.  ...  It  would 
be  bad  enough  to  strip  any  dead  man.  .  .  .  But 
to  strip  a  dead  man  with  that  face  would  be  horribly 
unpleasant. 

He  took  a  dozen  jerky  steps  up  and  down  the  glade, 
shaken  by  the  conflict  between  desire  and  repulsion. 
His  head  ached  and  throbbed  worse  than  ever.  The 
thought,  the  driving  thought,  of  being  free  from  the 
money  worry  for  a  time  was  beating  repulsion  down. 
Besides,  in  the  back  of  his  mind  (he  would  not  allow 
it  to  grow  quite  clear)  was  the  thought  that  it  might 
mean  freedom  from  the  money  worry  for  good.  If 
he  were  the  duke  for  only  three  days,  it  might  lead  to 
other  things.  ...  It  would  lead  to  other  things. 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  do  it. 

If  James  Whi taker  was  slow  in  thought,  he  was 
quick  in  action.  The  open  turf  under  the  great  oak 
was  no  place  to  make  the  change  of  clothes.  There 
were  three  paths  leading  from  it  into  the  wood;  and 
at  any  minute  a  keeper  might  come  along  any  one  of 
them.  He  picked  up  the  body  of  the  duke  and  carried 
it  into  the  thick  bushes  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the 
hill.  A  dozen  yards  in  he  laid  it  gently  down  on  its 


:WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  13 

back;  then  he  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  covered 
the  dreadful  face. 

He  got  to  work  quickly.  The  death-stiffness  had 
not  yet  set  in ;  and  the  body  and  limbs  were  limp  and 
easy  to  handle.  The  coat  came  off  easily.  He  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  holding  it;  then  he  took  off  his  own 
coat,  spread  it  flat  between  two  bushes,  and  laid  the 
duke's  garments  on  it  as  he  took  them  off.  Presently 
he  was  breathing  quickly,  almost  panting;  and  he  kept 
casting  furtive  glances  into  the  thick  bushes  round  him. 
He  was  even  sweating  a  little.  The  waistcoat  and 
trousers  also  came  off  easily ;  he  had  more  trouble  with 
the  shirt  and  the  underclothing.  The  handkerchief 
kept  slipping  from  the  face,  and  presently  he  tied  it 
over  it.  The  sun  was  now  shining  bright  and  warm, 
and  the  birds  were  singing  louder  than  ever.  James 
Whitaker  did  not  hear  them:  he  was  too  busy.  The 
duke  was  wearing  low  shoes,  and  they  came  off  easily. 

At  last  the  body  was  stripped,  its  garments  in  a  pile 
on  his  coat.  James  Whitaker  paused  and  gazed  at  it 
curiously.  It  was  so  like  his  own.  He  could  see  no 
marks  on  it  by  which  it  might  be  distinguished  from 
his  own — no  moles  or  scars ;  only  the  duke's  feet  were 
very  white,  and  there  were  no  corns  on  them.  His  own 
feet  were  much  redder,  from  wearing  army  bluchers; 
and  there  were  corns  on  them.  He  must  keep  them 
out  of  sight.  It  should  not  be  difficult,  though  of 
course,  as  a  duke,  he  would  have  a  valet.  His  hands 
would  pass  muster ;  he  had  always  kept  his  hands  and 
nails  well,  thanks  to  Millicent,  his  wife.  Well,  she 
was  being  justified  of  her  insistence  on  it  now. 


14  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

He  rose,  emptied  his  pockets,  stripped  quickly  and 
began  to  put  on  his  double's  clothes.  The  shirt  and 
underclothing  were  dry,  for  the  cloth  of  the  suit  was 
rain-proof;  plainly  the  duke  had  been  expecting  the 
storm.  The  silk  waistcoat  and  pants  felt  very  soft  and 
luxurious  to  James  Whitaker's  skin.  The  shoes  fitted 
him  admirably.  He  shivered  as  he  put  on  the  cold  sod- 
den collar.  In  putting  on  the  coat  he  pulled  the  left 
lapel,  and  a  couple  of  inches  of  it  crumpled  in  his 
hand.  The  lightning  had  scorched  it.  Last  of  all  he 
drew  the  duke's  ring,  a  signet-ring,  off  his  finger  and 
put  it  on  his  own.  As  he  did  it,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  assumed  definitely  the  personality  of  the  duke. 

Then  he  fell  to  work  to  dress  the  duke  in  his  own 
clothes.  It  was  more  difficult  than  stripping  him; 
but  there  were  not  so  many  garments:  James  Whit- 
aker  did  not  wear  underclothing  in  the  summer.  The 
most  difficult  part  of  it  was  getting  the  army  bluchers 
on  to  the  limp  feet.  But  James  Whitaker  was  work- 
ing easily  and  coolly  now;  he  no  longer  breathed 
quickly  and  sweated.  At  last  he  tied  the  lace  of  the 
second  boot  and  rose  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

He  had  no  fear  of  the  body  being  identified  as  that 
of  James  Whitaker.  He  had  bought  a  new  shirt  for 
his  visit  to  his  uncle,  and  it  had  not  yet  been  marked : 
there  were  no  under-garments ;  and  his  collar,  being 
celluloid,  was  unmarked.  He  put  back  the  Ingersoll 
watch  and  cheap  silver  chain  into  the  waistcoat,  the 
four  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents,  in  silver,  and  the 
damp  match-box  into  the  trousers  pockets,  the  cheap 
pipe  and  tobacco-pouch  and  the  handkerchief  into  the 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  15 

pockets  of  the  frock  coat.  His  fountain  pen,  a  gift 
from  his  wife,  he  kept.  He  did  not  take  the  trouble 
to  cut  the  maker's  name  from  the  lining  of  the  soft 
hat  Such  hats  must  be  sold  in  tens  of  thousands ;  and 
it  seemed  wiser  to  leave  it. 

He  picked  up  the  duke's  body,  carried  it  out  of  the 
bushes  and  laid  it  on  its  face  on  the  spot  where  it 
had  fallen  from  the  stroke.  He  picked  up  the  duke's 
Panama  hat.  The  front  of  it  was  scorched,  and  in 
the  brim,  where  the  lightning  had  pierced  it,  was  a 
neat  round  hole  with  blackened  edges,  about  three- 
quarters  of  an  inch  across.  He  put  on  the  ha't,  and 
found  that  it  fitted  him. 

He  looked  slowly  round  the  glade,  then  went  down 
the  path. 


CHAPTER  II 

HE  walked  slowly,  on  unsteady  feet,  though  the 
duke's  boots  fitted  them  not  merely  as  if  they 
had  been  made  for  them,  but  as  if  they  had  also  been 
worn  to  them.  His  head  was  still  a  little  dazed  from 
the  lightning-stroke;  and  the  business  of  undressing 
and  dressing  the  duke  had,  in  his  shaken  condition, 
tried  him  severely.  Moreover,  it  was  a  further  strain 
on  him  that  he  had  done  it  quickly.  A  hundred  yards 
down  the  path  he  stopped  and  leaned  against  the  dry 
side  of  a  tree-trunk. 

The  thought  came  to  him  to  examine  the  duke's 
pockets,  and  he  set  about  it.  The  old-fashioned  gold 
watch  had  stopped,  probably  it  had  been  stopped  by 
the  lightning-stroke;  its  chain  was  of  platinum  and 
gold.  The  signet-ring  was  also  old,  set  with  an  am- 
ethyst engraved  with  a  coat  of  arms.  He  took  it  that 
they  were  the  Lanchester  arms.  In  the  right-hand 
trousers  pocket  were  twenty  dollars  and  fifteen  cents  in 
silver.  In  the  left-hand  breast  pocket  of  the  coat  were 
the  two  letters  and  the  cigarette-case ;  in  its  right-hand 
breast  pocket  was  a  note-case  containing  three  twenty- 
five-dollar  and  two  fifty-dollar  notes.  There  was 
something  so  comforting  in  the  feel  of  them  that  he 
gazed  round  him  with  a  sudden  air  of  guilt.  In  the 
right-hand  waistcoat  pocket  was  a  small  mother-of- 

16 


AVHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  17 

pearl  penknife;  and  in  the  pocket  above  it  an  amber 
and  gold  cigarette-holder. 

The  sight  of  it  suggested  to  him  that  another  cig- 
arette would  be  soothing;  he  took  one  from  the  case 
and  put  it  in  his  mouth.  Then  he  felt  in  his  pockets 
for  a  match-box  and  found  that  the  duke  had  come  out 
without  any  matches.  He  was  thoroughly  annoyed  by 
the  oversight.  As  he  put  the  cigarette  back  into  the 
case,  he  wished  that  he  had  not  left  his  own  matches 
on  the  body  of  the  duke. 

He  walked  slowly  on  into  the  broad  aisle  of  the 
wood  up  which  the  duke  had  chased  him,  cast  one  look 
down  it  toward  the  road,  and  then  turned  up  it  in 
the  opposite  direction.  As  he  had  come  along  the  road, 
he  had  had  glimpses  of  a  great  building  behind  the 
wood :  it  must  be  the  duke's  castle.  At  the  end  of  the 
aisle  a  path  ran,  right  and  left,  along  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  and  along  the  top  of  a  high  bank,  covered  with 
brushwood  and  trees,  at  the  foot  of  which  flowed  the 
sluggish  stream  of  the  River  Wyper.  Through  the  trees 
he  saw  the  great  building  on  the  right,  half  a  mile 
away. 

He  turned  up  the  path  to  the  right,  toward  it ;  and 
as  he  went  he  wished  that  he  knew  very  much  more 
about  himself  than  he  did.  All  he  knew  was  that  he 
was  the  Duke  of  Lanchester;  he  did  not  know  his 
Christian  name,  or  his  family  name,  or  the  name  of 
the  duchess.  He  did  not  know,  indeed,  whether  there 
were  a  duchess,  but  he  had  a  vague  idea  that  the  duke 
was  unmarried.  He  did  not  know  the  name  of  a 
single  relation  or  dependent.  He  did  not  even  know 


i8 

the  name  of  the  building  to  which  he  was  going.  How- 
ever, the  lightning-stroke  would  account  for  his  not 
knowing  people  and  things;  any  one  who  had  been 
struck  by  lightning  might  lose  their  memory  for  a  few 
weeks;  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  he  would 
pick  up  nearly  everything  needful  for  him  to  know. 

He  stopped  stock-still  for  a  moment :  what  was  this 
he  was  thinking  about  a  few  weeks?  He  was  going 
to  be  a  duke  only  for  a  day  or  two — just  to  see  what 
it  was  like.  He  went  on  again,  frowning;  the  stroke 
had  certainly  confused  his  mind. 

At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  path  ran  down 
the  bank  to  a  foot-bridge  across  the  river.  He  crossed 
it  and  came  into  the  park,  in  which,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  the  great  building  stood.  The  park  was  dotted 
with  great  trees,  single  or  in  clumps;  and  in  sight, 
browsing  or  lying  down  in  the  bracken,  were  nearly  a 
hundred  deer.  The  sight  pleased  him;  the  thought 
that  he  was  the  owner  of  a  deer-park  (for  a  day  or 
two)  was  indeed  very  pleasing. 

He  walked  slowly  across  the  park  and  came  to  the 
tall  hedge  of  the  gardens  of  the  Abbey.  Passing 
through  a  gate  in  it,  twenty  yards  farther  on,  he  came 
to  the  high  turfed  bank  of  the  outermost  terrace  and 
slowly  and  shakily  mounted  its  steps.  On  the  terrace 
two  gardeners,  cutting  the  grass  of  the  lawn,  touched 
their  hats  to  him ;  and  he  saw  that  they  looked  at  him 
curiously.  It  did  not  surprise  him :  he  thought  it  likely 
that  a  man  who  had  been  struck,  even  gently,  by  light- 
ning would  present  a  strange  appearance.  Slowly 
and  shakily  he  mounted  the  broad  flight  of  marble 


LWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  19 

steps  to  the  great  doors  of  the  building,  and  was  on  the 
very  point  of  pulling  the  old-fashioned,  wrought-iron 
bell-handle  which  hung  beside  the  door,  when  he  be- 
thought himself  that  he  must  not  ring  the  bell  of  his 
own  castle.  He  opened  the  door  and  stepped  into  a 
small  modern  vestibule  which  had  been  cut  off  from 
the  end  of  the  great  hall. 

A  footman,  who  was  sitting  on  an  old  oak  chair, 
reading  a  newspaper,  sprang  up  and  stood  stiffly  at  at- 
tention. James  Whitaker  looked  at  him  and  was 
pleased  to  perceive  that  he  did  not  look  intelligent. 
At  the  moment  he  did  not  wish  to  have  to  do  with 
any  one  who  looked  intelligent. 

He  said  in  a  voice  purposely  husky:  "I've  been 
struck  by  lightning.  Get  me  a  brandy  and  soda." 

"Struck  by  lightning?  Yes,  your  Grace,"  said  the 
footman,  springing  briskly  to  the  inner  door  of  the 
vestibule  and  holding  it  open.  His  face  showed  no 
perturbation  or  surprise  at  his  master's  accident,  only 
interest  in  opening  the  door  quickly. 

James  Whitaker  passed  unsteadily  through  it  into 
his  great  ducal  hall.  The  footman  hurried  quickly 
past  him  to  bring  the  brandy  and  soda. 

James  Whitaker  was  but  dimly  aware  of  the  great- 
ness and  beauty  of  the  hall.  The  grateful  object 
which  caught  and  chained  his  eye  was  a  large  and 
comfortable  easy  chair.  He  went  quickly  to  it,  and 
sank  into  it  with  a  great  sigh  of  pleasure,  stretched  out 
his  legs,  and  in  a  few  seconds  was  nodding  drowsily. 
He  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  hurried  footsteps.  The 
footman  had  come  back  bearing  brandy,  soda-water 


20  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

and  a  large  glass  on  a  silver  salver.  A  big  man  in 
evening  dress,  wearing  an  air  of  the  liveliest  surprise 
and  anxiety,  came  behind  the  footman.  James  Whit- 
aker perceived  that  it  was  his  butler. 

They  came  to  him;  and  murmuring  disjointed  words 
of  sympathy,  the  butler  mixed  the  brandy  and  soda 
and  handed  it  to  him. 

James  Whitaker  took  the  glass  in  a  shaky  hand  and 
drained  it  slowly.  It  was  one  of  the  most  grateful 
drinks  he  had  ever  drunk  in  his  life.  Forthwith  it 
began  to  strengthen  him  and  clear  his  head. 

He  lay  back  for  half  a  minute  with  closed  eyes,  en- 
joying its  grateful  warmth;  then  he  opened  his  eyes 
and  said  in  a  much  fainter,  much  huskier  voice  than 
need  be :  "The  lightning — the  lightning  has — muddled 
my  head.  I — don't  seem — to  know  where  I  am.  Just 
get  me  up  to  my  bedroom,  will  you?  I  had  better  lie 
down  for  an  hour." 

They  helped  him  to  his  feet,  and  leaning  on  their 
arms,  he  went  feebly  down  the  hall  and  up  the  broad 
staircase  at  the  end  of  it.  In  the  corridor  at  the  top 
of  the  staircase  they  led  him  through  the  fourth  door 
on  the  left  hand  (he  was  careful  to  mark  the  way  he 
went  and  count  the  doors)  into  a  big  airy  bedroom. 
They  were  leading  him  to  the  bed,  but  he  said  that  he 
would  rest  on  the  broad  couch  under  one  of  the  win- 
dows, and  stretched  himself  at  full  length  on  it. 

"Hadn't  I  better  send  Tomkins  to  get  your  Grace 
to  bed  ?"  said  the  butler  anxiously. 

James  Whitaker  took  note  of  the  fact  that  his  valet's 


[WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  21 

name  was  Tomkins.  But  he  said:  "No;  I'll  rest 
here." 

"But  hadn't  I  better  send  for  Doctor  Arbuthnot  to 
see  your  Grace  ?"  said  the  butler. 

"Yes,  send  for  Doctor  Arbuthnot,"  said  James 
Whitaker,  pleased  to  have  learned  yet  another  useful 
name  so  soon.  "And  find  me  some  quinine  to  be 
going  on  with.  I  was  lying  insensible  in  the  rain  for 
I  don't  know  how  long." 

He  was  careful  to  speak  huskily:  he  did  not  wish 
them  to  observe  that  the  duke  was  speaking  in  a 
changed  voice. 

"Yes,  your  Grace,"  said  the  butler;  and  he  hurried 
out  of  the  room,  followed  by  the  footman. 

The  butler  was  back  in  less  than  three  minutes  with 
a  bottle  of  quinine  tablets.  James  Whitaker  took  two 
of  them,  bade  the  butler  bring  him  a  rug,  and  when  he 
had  covered  him  with  it,  dismissed  him.  Then  he 
relaxed  his  limbs,  and  with  a  mind  for  the  time  being 
at  ease,  fell  asleep. 

Twenty  minutes  later  he  was  awakened  by  his  butler 
ushering  in  Doctor  Arbuthnot.  For  some  seconds  he 
did  not  know  where  he  was,  or  how  he  had  come  into 
this  luxurious  room.  As  soon  as  he  remembered  the 
events  of  the  afternoon,  he  looked  anxiously  at  the 
doctor,  and  perceived  that  he  was  such  a  one  as  he 
would  have  him  to  be:  a  stout,  red- faced  cheerful- 
looking  soul,  of  the  very  grade  of  intelligence  which 
should  make  him  really  useful  to  him  in  the  false 
position  in  which  he  found  himself. 


22  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

The  doctor  came  briskly  to  the  couch  and  greeted 
James  Whitaker  in  his  cheeriest  bedside  manner. 
James  Whitaker's  headache  had  not  sweetened  his 
temper,  and  it  seemed  to  him  a  singularly  inappropri- 
ate manner  of  addressing  a  man  who  had  so  lately 
been  struck  by  lightning.  Therefore  he  returned  the 
doctor's  greeting  grumpily,  and  submitted  to  have  his 
pulse  felt,  his  temperature  taken  and  the  stethoscope 
applied  to  his  chest,  with  a  very  ill  grace  indeed. 

At  the  end  of  the  examination  Doctor  Arbuthnot 
said  cheerily :  "No  harm  done — no  organ  injured.  Just 
a  shock  from  a  violent  stimulation  of  the  nerves  by  the 
electricity.  A  sedative — a  sedative  will  soon  put 
all  that  right — soothe  the  nerves  and  stop  the  head- 
ache." 

"A  sedative!  A  sedative  when  I'm  feeling  so  slack 
that  I  can  scarcely  move  a  limb?  Nonsense,  Doctor! 
What  I  want  is  a  tonic — a  strong  tonic." 

Out  of  the  simple  warmth  of  his  temper,  without 
knowing  it,  James  Whitaker  had  spoken  in  the  very 
manner  of  the  late  duke. 

Doctor  Arbuthnot  hesitated  a  moment;  then  he 
said:  "But  the  electricity,  your  Grace — " 

"Bother  the  electricity!"  cried  James  Whitaker, 
with  yet  more  heat.  "What  I  want  is  a  tonic!" 

"Well,  if  your  Grace  really  feels  that  a  tonic  is  what 
you  want,  I  will  prescribe  a  tonic.  There  is,  of  course, 
no  fixed  treatment  for  lightning-strokes ;  and  probably 
your  instinct  is  the  best  guide,"  said  Doctor  Arbuthnot, 
and  he  walked  to  the  writing-table  which  stood  before 
the  next  window,  and  took  up  a  pen. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  33 

"But  what  P-want  most  is  something  to  clear  my 
head.  It's  all  muddled  and  confused.  I  know  that 
you're  Doctor  Arbuthnot  all  right,  and  I  know  that 
Tomkins  is  Tomkins.  But  I'm  hanged  if  I  can  re- 
member the  names  of  the  butler  or  the  footman,  or 
any  of  the  names  of  the  other  servants,"  said  James 
iWhitaker. 

"The  butler's  name  is  Jenkinson,"  said  Doctor  Ar- 
buthnot ;  and  looking  as  profound  and  intelligent  as  he 
could,  he  added:  "This  loss  of  memory  is  a  passing 
weakness,  due  to  shock.  Your  Grace  will  probably 
recover  from  it  before  to-morrow  morning.  But  any- 
how, I  should  think  that  in  the  course  of  the  next  few 
days  your  memory  will  become  as  good  as  ever." 

"Hadn't  I  better  have  a  specialist  down  at  once?" 
said  James  Whitaker.  "Who  had  I  better  have?" 

The  inhabitants  of  the  village  of  Little  Lanchester 
were  not  wont  to  -be  troubled  with  affections  of  the 
brain;  and  at  the  moment  Doctor  Arbuthnot  could  not 
think  of  the  name  of  a  brain  specialist,  therefore  he 
said :  "You  may  safely  wait  two  or  three  days,  your 
Grace." 

James  Whitaker  frowned  at  him,  and  said  in  a  tone 
of  the  bitterest  discontent:  "That's  all  very  well: 
but  it's  beastly  unpleasant  not  to  be  able  to  remember 
who  anybody  is,  or  even  to  know  the  place  you're  in." 

"You  forgot  that!  Forgot  that  this  is  Lanchester 
Abbey!"  cried  Doctor  Arbuthnot  in  a  tone  of  extreme 
surprise. 

"Well,  what  if  it  is?  I  can't  remember  my  way 
about  it,"  growled  James  Whitaker. 


24  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Dear,  dear!  That's  bad,"  said  the  doctor.  "But 
it's  very  unlikely  indeed  that  it  will  last  long — very 
unlikely  indeed." 

"But  while  it  lasts  it's  going  to  be  very  unpleasant," 
said  James  Whitaker.  "And  I  don't  want  to  be  both- 
ered about  it.  You'd  better  explain  it  thoroughly  to 
Jenkinson,  and  tell  him  to  see  that  I'm  not  bothered 
by  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  your  Grace.  Jenkinson  will  see  to  that — 
he'll  see  to  that,"  said  Doctor  Arbuthnot  cheerfully. 

James  Whitaker  glowered  at  him.  He  felt  that  he 
had  assumed  the  ducal  attitude  in  a  very  creditable 
fashion. 

Doctor  Arbuthnot  bent  down  and  began  to  write  the 
prescription. 

As  he  finished  it,  James  Whitaker  said:  "I  tell 
you  what,  Doctor:  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing  if  a 
short  paragraph  were  sent  to  the  papers,  saying  that 
I've  been  struck  by  lightning,  and  have  lost  my  mem- 
ory. Then  if  I  do  make  mistakes,  people  will  under- 
stand." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  some  sur- 
prise, and  said :  "B-b-but  I  thought  your  Grace  hated 
the  papers  so." 

James  Whitaker  frowned  at  him  darkly  for  having 
been  with  him  all  this  time,  and  only  at  this  last  mo- 
ment thrown  some  light  on  the  character  of  the  duke. 

Then  he  said:  "Of  course  I  hate  the  papers.  But 
that's  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  make  use  of  them  if 
I  want  to — if  it  will  save  me  from  being  bothered. 
Who  should  I  get  to  write  the  paragraph?" 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  25 

Doctor  Arbuthnot  frowned,  considering  the  matter ; 
then  he  said :  "Well,  of  course,  your  Grace  hasn't  had 
a  secretary  since  Mr.  Fortescue  left;  and  I  don't  think 
Jenkinson  could  do  it." 

"I'm  sure  he  couldn't,"  said  James  Whitaker  in  the 
tone  of  a  man  well  acquainted  with  the  butler's  lim- 
itations. 

The  doctor's  face  brightened  with  a  happy  thought, 
and  he  said :  "How  would  it  be  if  I  went  round  to  the 
vicarage  and  saw  the  vicar,  and  asked  him  to  write  it  ? 
It's  the  kind  of  thing  he  likes  doing." 

"The  very  man,  Doctor.  Though  I'll  be  hanged  if 
I  haven't  forgotten  his  name!  What  is  his  name?" 

"Carton,  your  Grace — George  Carton,"  said  the 
(doctor. 

"Of  course!"  cried  James  Whitaker.  "Well,  if  you 
would  go  round  and  ask  him  to  send  a  paragraph  to 
two  or  three  of  the  papers  I  should  be  very  much 
obliged  to  you — and  to  him  too." 

"I  will,  your  Grace.  I  will,  with  pleasure,"  said  Doc- 
tor Arbuthnot  heartily.  "And  I  shall  give  Jenkinson 
this  more  elaborate  prescription  to  send  into  Lan- 
chester.  But  in  the  meantime  I  shall  send  up  a  simpler 
tonic  from  my  own  surgery." 

He  went  to  the  door  and  paused  to  say:  "Good 
afternoon,  your  Grace ;  good  afternoon." 

"Wait  a  minute;  when  are  you  coming  to  see  me 
again?"  said  James  Whitaker. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  your  Grace  will  need  me  again. 
I  think  that,  barring  your  memory,  your  Grace  will 
be  as  right  as  a  trivet  in  the  morning." 


26  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Oh,  that  won't  do!  That  won't  do!  I  would 
rather  you  came  again  this  evening.  Lightning- 
strokes  are  awkward  things:  there's  no  saying  what 
the  after  effects  may  be,"  said  James  Whitaker 
quickly. 

He  thought  that  in  the  evening,  when  his  head  was 
clearer,  he  might  very  easily  set  the  doctor  talking  to 
some  purpose. 

"By  all  means,  your  Grace — by  all  means.  I  will 
certainly  come.  I  was  only  thinking  that  your  Grace 
had  told  me  never  to  pay  you  an  unnecessary  visit," 
said  Doctor  Arbuthnot. 

"But  this  is  a  necessary  visit,"  said  James  Whit- 
aker with  decision. 

"If  your  Grace  thinks  so — if  your  Grace  thinks  so. 
Good-by,  then,  for  the  present,  your  Grace,"  said  the 
doctor ;  and  he  went  out  beaming. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him  James  Whitaker 
heaved  yet  another  sigh  of  relief;  he  felt  that  he  had 
passed  his  medical  examination. 


CHAPTER  III 

JAMES  WHITAKER  was  by  no  means  ill 
equipped  to  carry  through  the  enterprise  fortune 
had  thrust  on  him.  Dealers  in  curiosities,  like  booksell- 
ers, are  on  the  whole  better  educated  than  the  average 
tradesman  (possibly  their  trade  educates  them),  and 
he  was  better  educated  than  the  average  dealer  in  curi- 
osities. His  father,  a  well-to-do  house-agent  of  Ham- 
mersmith, had  sent  him  to  St.  Paul's  School;  and 
though  he  had  been  far  more  proficient  at  both  cricket 
and  football  than  at  his  books,  he  had  always  occupied 
a  respectable  place  rather  less  than  half-way  down  his 
forms,  and  had  obtained  at  any  rate  the  beginning  of  a 
classical  education.  He  had  learned  at  school  to  use  the 
English  language  with  some  precision,  and  since  his 
father  came  from  Warwick  and  his  mother  from  Lin- 
colnshire, he  had  acquired  at  home  very  little  of  the 
London  accent.  Unfortunately  for  him,  his  mother 
died  when  he  was  a  boy  of  ten. 

Unfortunately  too,  while  he  was  still  at  school,  his 
father  was  afflicted  by  a  belief,  wide-spread  at  the  end 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  that  it  was  possible  to  make 
money  by  backing  horses.  Like  so  many  other  peo- 
ple of  his  day,  he  demonstrated  its  falsity  with  such 
thoroughness  that,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  James  found 
himself  living  with  him  in  a  dirty  little  room  in  a 

27 


28  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

Hammersmith  slum,  and  in  the  employ  of  a  local 
chemist,  for  whom  he  carried  around  bottles  of  medi- 
cine  and  packets  of  powders  to  the  sick  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. This  change  in  his  fortunes  chiefly  afflicted 
him  by  depriving  him  of  the  games  he  loved. 

When  he  was  seventeen  his  father  died  in  the  Ham- 
mersmith hospital  of  pneumonia,  and  James  found 
himself  adrift  in  the  world,  fending  for  himself.  He 
was  very  short  of  kin,  both  on  his  father's  side  and 
his  mother's.  Indeed,  he  knew  none  of  his  father's 
relations;  and  of  his  mother's  he  only  knew  her  bro- 
ther, Robert  Unwin.  Twice  he  had  spent  a  week  of 
his  summer  holidays  at  his  farm.  During  those  two 
weeks  he  had  seen  quite  enough  of  his  uncle  to  deter 
him  from  proposing  that  he  should  go  to  him  and  be- 
come a  farmer's  boy. 

The  death  of  his  father  left  him  in  a  better  posi- 
tion, for  he  was  no  longer  called  on  to  spend  part  of 
his  insufficient  wages  on  satisfying  the  craving  for 
drink  which  his  father  had  chiefly  acquired  on  the 
race-courses  round  London.  But  he  found  himself 
very  lonely,  for  he  had  been  fond  in  his  undemon- 
strative, almost  sullen  way  of  his  genial  and  cheery 
father,  who  was  so  strong  a  contrast  to  himself.  Two 
months  later  he  left  the  service  of  the  chemist  and 
entered  that  of  William  Ward,  the  owner  of  a  curi- 
osity shop  in  Watergate  Street. 

Here  he  was  in  a  much  better  position.  The  wages 
were  only  two  dollars  a  week,  but  he  slept  in  an 
attic  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and  took  his  meals  with 
the  old  servant,  Amy.  She  was  a  cross-grained  old 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  29 

woman ;  and  it  had  for  years  been  her  chief  pleasure  in 
life  to  nag  her  master's  assistant  for  the  time  being. 
She  had,  indeed,  had  the  pleasure  of  driving  three  of 
them,  solely  in  her  master's  interests,  of  course,  out  of 
his  employ.  On  James  Whitaker  her  nagging  made  no 
impression;  at  the  end  of  three  months  of  it,  it  is 
probable  that  he  did  not  hear  a  word  of  it.  Beyond 
nagging  she  dare  not  go  with  him.  She  had  once  swept 
a  book  he  was  reading  off  the  kitchen  table  on  to  the 
floor,  and  he  had  treated  her  to  a  display  of  black 
fury  which  had  made  her  afraid  even  to  nag  him  for 
a  week. 

William  Ward  himself  was,  as  masters  go,  an  easy 
man  to  work  for.  He  had  an  even  temper;  he  was 
reasonable  and  not  exacting.  He  was  fond  of  talk- 
ing during  the  long  intervals  when  there  were  no  cus- 
tomers in  the  shop ;  and  James  Whitaker  was  the  per- 
fect listener.  Much  of  William  Ward's  talk  was  of 
his  business :  the  battles  at  auctions  or  in  the  auction- 
rooms,  the  acquisitions  of  bargains,  the  pastes  of  por- 
celains, the  forging  of  old  furniture  and  so  forth. 
Since  he  was  fond  of  illustrating  his  talk  with  exam- 
ples to  hand,  he  was  teaching  James  Whitaker  the 
business  in  the  way  he  could  best  learn  it.  He  was 
not,  indeed,  greatly  interested  in  it  at  first;  but  he 
chanced  to  have  the  genuine  seeing  eye  of  the  con- 
noisseur; and  he  was  learning  it  in  spite  of  that  lack 
of  interest.  He  was  far  more  pleased  with  this  post 
than  with  his  post  of  chemist's  boy,  for  he  had  his 
evenings,  his  Sundays  and  his  Saturday  afternoons 
free.  He  resumed  his  football  on  the  turf,  or  rather 


30  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

the  mud,  of  a  kind  of  small  recreation  ground  at  the 
bottom  of  the  Stamford  Brook  Road.  It  was  but  poor 
football  after  the  football  of  St.  Paul's  School,  but  it 
was  better  than  none  at  all;  and  when  he  was  nine- 
teen and  his  wages  had  risen  to  three  dollars  a  week, 
he  joined  a  club  called  the  Hammersmith  Tigers, 
which  played  at  Wormwood  Scrubbs. 

With  the  fourth  member  of  the  household,  William 
Ward's  daughter  Millicent,  James  Whitaker  came  very 
little  into  contact.  She  was  a  sandy-haired,  sharp- 
featured,  anemic,  somewhat  querulous  girl,  a  year 
younger  than  he ;  and  for  the  first  two  years  he  worked 
for  her  father  she  was  away,  a  boarder  at  Brixmouth 
High  School.  He  saw  her  during  the  holidays  only, 
and  now  and  again  he  did  odd  jobs  for  her,  put  up  a 
shelf  in  her  bedroom,  strapped  up  her  trunk  and  car- 
ried it  down-stairs,  changed  the  novels,  of  which  she 
read  a  great  number,  at  Boots'  in  King  Street,  fetched 
her  a  rare  cab.  She  awoke  no  interest  in  him ;  and  he 
awoke  none  in  her. 

Always,  however,  in  the  background  of  his  mind,  for 
the  most  part  very  far  in  the  background,  was  the 
memory  of  the  better  life  he  had  enjoyed  before  his 
father's  downfall.  He  had  lapsed  a  long  way  in  Will- 
iam Ward's  kitchen  from  the  standard  of  refinement 
of  St.  Paul's,  and  even  from  that  of  his  own  home. 
But  memories  of  that  refinement  remained  with  him; 
and  now  and  again  he  would  for  a  while  speak  with  the 
better  pronunciation  and  intonation  of  his  earlier  boy- 
hood. It  was  these  outbursts,  added  to  his  greater 
skill  in  the  game,  which  gave  him  uncommon  prom- 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  31 

inence  among  the  Hammersmith  Tigers,  and  presently 
invested  him  with  the  captaincy  of  the  team. 

But  he  had  passed  his  twentieth  birthday  before  it 
was  borne  in  upon  him  quite  clearly  that  the  wages  he 
was  receiving  and  was  likely  to  receive  were  not 
nearly  enough  to  satisfy  his  wants  and  desires;  and 
he  began  to  cast  about  how  to  better  his  chances  in 
life.  He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  must  be  better 
educated  if  he  would  increase  his  income.  The  Ham- 
mersmith Polytechnic  afforded  opportunities  of  be- 
coming educated ;  and  he  began  to  attend  night  classes 
there  in  French,  German,  bookkeeping  and  English. 
He  found  that  that  part  of  his  mind  which  acquired  a 
knowledge  of  languages  had  grown  uncommonly 
rusty. 

Millicent  Ward  had  at  this  time  left  school  about 
three  months,  but  she  had  brought  from  it  ideals  of 
culture,  and  she  also  attended  the  English  classes  at 
the  polytechnic.  She  had  never  taken  any  interest  in 
her  father's  robust,  rugged- featured  assistant :  he  was 
so  far  removed  from  the  refined  and  gentlemanly  ideal 
of  her  dreams.  The  sudden  discovery  that  he  also 
was  imbibing  culture  at  an  English  class  awoke  her  in- 
terest in  him.  She  did  not  feel  at  all  shy  with  him, 
for  he  was  an  inferior ;  and  the  next  day  she  questioned 
him  about  his  purpose  in  attending  the  polytechnic 
classes,  and  learned  his  intention  of  educating  himself. 

With  the  young  women  who  throng  King  Street  of 
an  evening,  James  Whitaker  had  had  nothing  to  do. 
They  did  not  attract  him.  Sometimes  when  he  was 
walking  with  one  of  the  Hammersmith  Tigers,  they 


32  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

would  meet  a  couple  of  female  acquaintances  of  his 
companion;  an  introduction  would  follow,  and  the 
four  of  them  would  split  up  into  pairs.  James  Whit- 
aker,  leader  as  he  was  in  the  football  field,  was  un- 
commonly shy  and  ill  at  ease  on  the  primrose  path  of 
dalliance ;  and  this  shyness  stayed  with  him. 

He  was  less  shy  with  Millicent  Ward  than  he  was 
with  the  girls  of  his  own  station;  for  one  thing, 
she  was  his  superior,  for  another,  they  had  common 
educational  interests.  For  a  while  she  contented 
herself  with  inquiring  now  and  again  about  his  prog- 
ress. Then  she  conceived  the  idea  of  helping  him. 
Since  he  did  not  feel  shy  with  her,  he  accepted  her 
offer  with  the  utmost  readiness.  There  was  leisure 
and  to  spare  in  the  curiosity  shop,  save  when  William 
Ward  had  made  purchases  at  a  sale,  and  they  were 
busy  mending  and  cleaning  objects  of  art,  or  dirtying 
others  with  a  view  to  investing  them  with  that  air  of 
antiquity  the  connoisseur  demands.  There  were,  in- 
deed, hours  to  spend  on  James  Whitaker's  education ; 
and  though  Millicent  was  a  poor  teacher,  his  knowl- 
edge of  French  and  German  and  English  increased 
at  a  satisfactory  speed.  His  knowledge  of  bookkeep- 
ing increased  as  quickly;  but  that  was  not  owing  to 
any  effort  of  Millicent  Ward.  She  was  only  interested 
in  culture. 

After  a  while  she  began  to  take  him  to  picture- 
galleries,  chiefly  to  South  Kensington  Museum.  She 
went  to  it  by  train,  and  he  walked  to  it.  She  was 
somewhat  annoyed  by  the  firmness  with  which  he  re- 
fused to  devote  his  Saturday  afternoons  to  culture, 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  33 

and  reserved  them  for  football  in  the  winter  and  for 
cricket  or  walks  into  the  country  in  the  summer.  But 
she  made  the  best  of  Sundays.  He  had  the  docile  and 
impressionable  mind  of  youth,  and  readily  accepted 
her  view  of  the  paramount  importance  of  culture ;  but 
his  spirit  demanded  the  stirring  rivalry  of  games,  and 
his  intellectual  desires  had  to  yield  to  it.  Besides 
devoting  Saturday  afternoons  to  games,  he  wasted 
many  an  evening  he  might  have  spent  in  improving 
his  mind,  on  boxing  and  gymnastics  at  the  poly- 
technic. 

It  is  difficult  for  a  boy  of  twenty-one  and  a  girl  of 
twenty  to  be  thrown  into  close  companionship  with- 
out their  emotions  being  stirred  by  it.  Neither  James 
nor  Millicent  were  free  from  human  frailty ;  and  they 
fell  in  love  with  each  other.  It  was  not  by  any 
means  a  violent  passion  in  either.  Millicent  was 
the  anemic,  flat-chested,  passionless  girl  of  the  worse 
parts  of  the  modern  town.  Her  feeling  toward  James 
Whitaker  was  little  more  than  a  sense  of  proprietor- 
ship in  him,  arising  from  the  pains  she  had  spent  on 
his  culture.  It  would  probably  have  rested  there  but 
for  the  discovery  that  his  father  had  been  a  well- 
to-do  estate  agent,  and  that  James  himself  had  been 
at  school  at  St.  Paul's,  a  discovery  which  invested  him 
with  a  tinge  of  the  romance  of  the  disinherited. 

James'  feeling  for  her  was  hardly  stronger ;  though 
her  delicacy  appealed  to  his  protective  instinct,  she  was 
too  thin-blooded  to  make  the  genuine  strong  appeal 
to  a  man  of  his  healthy  robustness.  But  she  was 
cultured;  and  marriage  with  her  would  be  a  distinct 


34  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

social  and  economic  advance.  They  drifted  into  a 
secret  engagement.  Then,  when  a  paralytic  stroke 
rendered  William  Ward  helpless,  and  the  whole  con- 
duct of  the  business  fell  into  the  hands  of  James  Whit- 
aker,  they  became  openly  engaged.  A  year  and  a  half 
later  William  Ward  died,  and  two  months  after  his 
death  and  a  month  after  his  own  twenty-third  birth- 
day, James  Whitaker  married  her. 

The  five  years  of  their  married  life  had  been  neither 
happy  nor  unhappy.  They  were  ill-mated;  but  since 
that  was  the  rule  in  their  class,  and  since  both  of  them 
realized  clearly  that  they  had  not  enough  money  to 
secure  the  mate  of  their  desire,  they  rebelled  but  sel- 
dom and  with  little  violence  against  their  wedded  lot. 
On  the  whole  they  made  the  best  of  it.  Millicent,  as 
far  as  her  capacity  and  lack  of  real  interest  in  domestic 
matters  allowed,  saw  to  James'  comfort.  She  even 
acted  as  saleswoman  with  moderate  success  when  he 
was  away  at  an  auction.  For  his  part,  he  humored 
her  efforts  to  maintain  and  increase  her  prenuptial 
culture,  and  was  indulgent  with  her  not  infrequent 
failures  as  a  housewife.  But  there  was  none  of  that 
close  intimacy  between  them  which  comes  of  genuine 
sympathy.  None  the  less,  James  Whitaker  was  better 
content  married  than  he  had  been  as  a  bachelor;  his 
was  a  domesticated  nature. 

During  those  five  years  Millicent's  health  grew  worse 
and  worse;  and  she  grew  more  and  more  querulous. 
Her  bad  health  was  to  a  great  extent  the  result  of  a 
poor  physique  and  bad  teeth;  but  she  made  it  worse 
by  taking  drugs  without  ceasing.  For  the  most  part 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  35 

her  day  began  with  strychnine  and  ended  with  chloral ; 
and  at  intervals  during  it  she  further  injured  her 
stomach  or  her  nerves.  Her  habit  of  taking  chloral 
to  induce  sleep  had  so  grown  on  her  that  now  she 
hardly  ever  slept  at  night  without  it;  and  it  had  in- 
deed played  havoc  with  her  nerves. 

But  all  the  while  she  was  growing  more  and  more 
intellectual;  and  though  James  Whitaker  sometimes 
protested  quite  vainly  against  the  chloral,  he  always 
fostered  patiently  her  intellectual  growth.  He  took 
her  to  the  gallery  of  the  opera-house  to  hear  the 
operas  of  Wagner,  to  the  galleries  of  theaters  to  hear 
the  comedies  of  Shaw,  to  the  Hammersmith  Ethical 
Society  to  hear  the  lectures  of  the  Chestertons,  and 
he  read  the  novels  of  Mrs.  Humphrey  Ward  that  she 
might  be  able  to  discuss  them  with  him.  He  listened 
patiently  to  her  unfolding  of  the  mysteries  of  theoso- 
phy  which  she  had  taken  up  for  her  final  explanation 
of  the  cosmic  scheme;  and  he  even  employed  the 
arithmetical  facility  he  had  acquired  at  the  bookkeep- 
ing classes  at  the  polytechnic  to  work  out  her  astro- 
logical calculations  for  her  when  she  made  that  science 
her  hobby.  With  a  praiseworthy  perseverance  he 
concealed  the  fact  that  she  bored  him  and  in  every 
way  failed  to  satisfy  him.  But  she  often  complained 
frankly  that  she  found  him  too  gross  for  her  refined 
nature  and  too  slow  of  understanding  for  her  brighter 
wits. 

The  business  of  the  shop,  which  had  been  poor  for 
years,  grew  steadily  worse.  The  private  customers  of 
William  Ward  had  died  off;  and  the  people  who  now 


36  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

passed  down  Watergate  Street  collected  but  the  cheap- 
est objects  of  art.  James  Whitaker  added  to  the  busi- 
ness the  selling  of  second-hand  furniture.  At  first 
it  prospered,  but  after  a  while  it  grew  poor,  for  the 
hire-purchase  system  was  more  and  more  spoiling  the 
second-hand  trade.  Consequently  he  suffered  from 
a  sense  that  two  things  were  lacking  in  his  life — love 
and  money.  He  was  far  more  patient  with  his  wife 
than  he  was  with  his  business.  His  failure  in  it  en- 
raged him ;  and  his  effort  to  borrow  five  hundred  dol- 
lars from  his  uncle  rose  from  his  conviction  that  his 
only  chance  was  to  make  a  fresh  start  in  a  more  fre- 
quented street. 

But  now  that  it  came  to  the  matter  of  playing  the 
duke  for  a  day  or  two,  both  his  wife  and  his  business 
were  likely  to  prove  of  use  to  him.  Association  with 
her  had  kept  his  speech  from  roughness  and  prevented 
him  from  acquiring  the  careless  table  manners  of  less 
fortunately  married  tradesmen;  and  the  battles  of  the 
auctions  and  sales  rooms,  with  buyers  and  with  sellers, 
had  gifted  him  with  no  little  capacity  for  dealing  with 
men. 

As  Doctor  Arbuthnot's  steps  died  away  down  the 
corridor,  James  Whitaker  was  thinking  that  he  had 
learned  very  little  from  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  better  lose  no  time  learning  more.  His  head 
was  still  aching,  but  the  brandy  and  soda  and  the  short 
sleep  had  refreshed  him.  He  slipped  off  the  couch  and 
set  out  to  seek  knowledge. 

There  were  two  doors  to  his  bedroom,   the   one 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  37 

through  which  he  had  come,  opening  into  the  cor- 
ridor, and  the  other  in  the  left  wall.  He  went  to  the 
latter  and  opened  it,  and  found  himself  in  a  large 
dressing-room,  the  end  of  which  had  been  partitioned 
off  to  form  a  bathroom.  He  was  impressed  and  de- 
lighted by  the  four  shelves  on  which  stood  more  than 
twenty  pairs  of  the  duke's  boots,  but  he  did  not  linger 
to  admire  them.  He  opened  the  door  that  faced  the 
one  by  which  he  had  entered,  and  found  himself 
where  he  wished  to  be,  in  the  sitting-room,  rather  a 
smoking-room  than  a  study,  of  the  duke. 

He  went  quickly  back  and  bolted  the  doors  which 
opened  into  the  corridor  from  the  bedroom,  the  dress- 
ing-room and  the  study  itself.  Then  he  went  briskly 
to  the  fine  Chippendale  bureau  which  stood  between 
the  two  windows.  It  was  open,  and  its  inside  was  in 
a  state  of  untidiness  which  chafed  James  Whitaker's 
strong  sense  of  propriety.  But  lying  prominent  on  the 
blotting-pad  was  a  sight  which  thrilled  him  with  joy; 
three  stamped  and  addressed  letters. 

He  sat  down  before  the  bureau  and  took  up  the  top- 
most. It  was  addressed  to  Lord  Ashow,  began  "Dear 
Herbert,"  and  was  signed  "Lanchester."  Plainly  it 
was  an  answer  to  the  letter  signed  "Herbert,"  in  his 
pocket.  The  second  was  addressed  to  Lady  Cubbing- 
ton,  began  "My  dear  Anne,"  and  was  signed  "John." 
James  Whitaker  had  learned  his  Christian  name.  He 
was  pleased  to  have  learned  it,  and  he  was  not  at  all 
displeased  by  it :  John  seemed  to  him  as  good  a  name 
as  James.  But  apart  from  this,  the  letter  was  inter- 


38  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

esting.  It  was  couched  in  as  affectionate  terms  as 
the  letter  in  his  pocket  signed  "Anne,"  and  he  won- 
dered whether  Lady  Cubbington  was  a  relation  of  the 
duke.  He  hoped  that  she  was,  but  something  in  the 
tone  of  the  letter  awoke  a  misgiving  in  him,  and  he 
feared  that  she  was  not.  Yet  she  might  be  a  widow. 
He  hoped  sincerely  that  he  would  not  find  himself 
involved  in  any  matrimonial  entanglements,  for  he 
felt  that  he  had  had  too  little  experience  in  these  mat- 
ters to  have  much  chance  of  extricating  himself  from 
them  in  a  really  creditable  manner. 

He  turned  from  the  consideration  of  this  subject 
to  the  third  letter,  and  found  it  the  most  useful  of  the 
three.  It  was  addressed  to  Messrs.  Moresby  Brothers, 
Tailors,  Bruton  Street,  London,  W.,  and  contained  a 
check  for  two  hundred  sixty-seven  dollars  and  fifty 
cents  in  payment  of  their  account. 

Also  it  contained  an  order  for  three  suits  of  clothes, 
with  careful  directions  about  their  color  and  material. 
But  the  check  was  the  important  thing;  and  James 
Whitaker  examined  it  with  joyful  eyes.  He  noted 
carefully  the  way  in  which  it  was  made  out;  and  after 
a  careful  consideration  of  it,  he  set  himself  to  practise 
the  reproduction  of  the  signature.  But  soon  he  found 
that  his  hand  was  still  too  shaky  for  accurate  writing, 
and  perceived  that  he  must  postpone  his  practise  till 
the  morrow.  He  put  the  check  and  the  letters  in  his 
pocket  and  began  to  look  through  the  drawers  of  the 
bureau.  They  were  all  very  untidy,  and  contained 
many  papers  dealing  with  matters  of  the  estate  and  the 
duke's  private  affairs.  James  Whitaker  was  not  in  a 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  39 

condition  to  profit  by  them;  he  looked  through  them 
cursorily,  and  put  them  back  in  the  drawers. 

The  two  bottom  drawers  of  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  bureau  were  locked ;  but  since  the  duke's  keys  were 
lying  in  one  of  the  pigeonholes,  he  had  no  difficulty 
in  opening  them.  In  these  drawers  neatness  reigned; 
they  were  full  of  letters  in  packets,  tied  up  with  red 
tape.  He  was  distressed  to  find  they  were  addressed 
to  the  duke,  that  most  of  them  began  "Dearest  John" 
(some  of  them  "Darling  John,")  that  they  were  all 
from  women,  each  packet  from  a  different  woman, 
and  that  all  of  them  were  couched  in  terms  of  the 
warmest  affection. 

He  closed  the  two  drawers  quickly  and  locked  them. 
Then  he  sat  back,  considering  this  unpleasant  situa- 
tion in  something  of  a  panic.  At  the  moment  he  was 
beyond  words  glad  that  he  was  only  going  to  be  a  duke 
for  three  days;  and  he  was  more  than  a  little  sorry 
that  he  had  arranged  that  the  vicar  should  despatch  a 
paragraph  to  the  newspapers  informing  the  world  that 
he  had  been  struck  by  lightning  and  had  lost  his  mem- 
ory. He  feared  lest  some  of  the  ladies  who  had  ad- 
dressed his  predecessor  as  "Dearest  John,"  or,  worse 
still,  as  "Darling  John,"  should  make  haste  to  recall 
themselves  to  his  memory — more  than  one  at  a  time. 

Saddened  by  this  discovery,  he  returned  with  a  fur- 
tive step  (as  if  the  ladies  were  already  on  his  track) 
to  his  bedroom,  unlocking  the  doors  opening  into  the 
corridor  as  he  went.  He  composed  himself  to  sleep 
on  the  couch  once  more;  but  he  did  not  fall  asleep  as 
quickly  as  he  wished.  He  was  still  harassed  by  the  dis- 


'40  WHITAKER'S   DUKEDOM 

covery  of  his  predecessor's  catholicity  (he  felt  in  his 
bones  that  the  ladies  were  of  many  types)  of  taste; 
but  presently  he  did  fall  asleep. 

He  awoke  in  about  an  hour  to  find  himself  very 
hungry,  rose  and  rang  the  bell. 

It  was  answered  by  a  stout,  genial-looking  young 
man  whom  he  perceived  must  be  his  valet,  Tomkins. 

The  young  man  at  once  became  voluble,  and  in  the 
London  speech  which  James  Whitaker  knew  so  well. 

"I'm  sorry  your  Grace  has  had  this  horful — orful — 
accident,"  he  said.  "And  I'm  sorry  I  was  out  when 
your  Grace  came  home — " 

"Yes,  but  I'm  hungry,"  said  James  Whitaker,  cut- 
ting him  short  in  a  very  grumpy  tone. 

"Yes,  your  Grace.  Jenkinson  thought  it  better  to 
let  your  Grace  have  your  sleep  out  since,  he  said,  you 
looked  so  shaky.  But  tea's  all  ready.  He's  bringing 
it  up  as  soon  as  it's  made." 

"And  where's  that  tonic  Doctor  Arbuthnot  was 
going  to  send  up  to  me?"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"Here,  your  Grace,  here,"  said  Tomkins,  holding 
out  a  bottle  in  one  hand  and  a  medicine  glass  in  the 
other.  "I'd  better  give  your  Grace  a  dose  of  it  at 
once." 

With  that  he  poured  out  a  dose  of  the  tonic,  added 
the  prescribed  quantity  of  water  and  handed  it  to 
him. 

He  had  hardly  drunk  it  when  the  door  opened  and 
Jenkinson  entered,  bearing  the  tea,  a  very  grateful 
sight  to  the  hungry  James  Whitaker.  The  butler  set 
the  tray  on  the  table  beside  the  couch  and  lifted  the  lid 


tWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  41 

from  the  dish  of  buttered  toast.  James  Whitaker 
seized  a  piece  greedily  and,  in  his  hunger,  was  on  the 
very  point  of  wolfing  it  down,  when  he  remembered 
that  he  was  a  duke.  Thereupon  he  ate  it  in  a  delicate, 
even  finicking  manner.  Jenkinson  and  Tomkins 
watched  him  with  eyes  full  of  interest:  the  fact  that 
he  had  so  recently  been  struck  by  lightning  was  very 
present  in  their  minds.  As  he  took  a  second  piece  of 
toast  Jenkinson  poured  cream  into  the  cup  and  then 
poured  the  tea  into  it.  James  Whitaker  perceived 
that  he  did  not  put  any  sugar  into  it ;  then  he  perceived 
that  there  was  no  sugar.  Unsweetened  tea  was  abhor- 
rent to  him. 

"There's  no  sugar,"  he  said  in  the  grump  husky 
tones  he  was  using. 

"But  your  Grace  never  takes  sugar!"  said  Jenkin- 
son in  lively  surprise. 

James  Whitaker  saw  that  he  had  made  a  slip;  but 
he  said  firmly :  "I  feel  to  want  it.  It  must  be  the  ef- 
fect of  the  electricity.  I  expect  I'm  still  charged 
with  it ;  and  my  system  requires  sugar." 

The  explanation,  fortified  as  it  was  by  the  scien- 
tific and,  as  James  Whitaker  well  knew,  inaccurate 
term  "electricity,"  seemed  quite  satisfactory  to  both 
of  them.  They  looked  at  him  with  commiserating 
eyes;  Jenkinson  said  hastily:  "Yes,  your  Grace,"  and 
hurried  out  of  the  room  to  fetch  the  sugar. 

For  the  benefit  of  his  valet  James  Whitaker  ate  the 
second  piece  of  toast  in  the  same  delicate  and  finicking 
manner  as  he  had  eaten  the  first.  Jenkinson  returned 
soon  bringing  a  sugar-basin,  and  stood  over  him  while 


42  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

he  ate  the  toast  and  drank  the  tea.  James  Whitaker 
wondered  whether  it  had  been  the  custom  of  the  duke 
always  to  have  some  one  standing  over  him  while  he 
took  his  tea.  It  seemed  to  him  a  tiresome  custom; 
but  he  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  protest. 

When  he  had  finished,  he  said  :  "Did  Doctor  Arbuth- 
not  explain  that  I  had  lost  my  memory?" 

"Yes,  your  Grace;  but  he  said  as  how  it  would  be 
sure  to  come  back  in  a  day  or  two,"  said  Tomkins 
quickly. 

"I  hope  it  will,"  growled  James  Whitaker.  "But 
it's  very  unpleasant ;  and  I  expect  I  shall  want  teaching 
everything  like  a  little  child." 

"Oh,  your  Grace  will  soon  learn,"  said  Jenkinson. 

"I  dare  say,"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

He  felt  much  better  for  his  tea,  and  dismissed  Jen- 
kinson. Tomkins  stood  awaiting  his  orders;  and  a 
happy  thought  came  to  James  Whitaker. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  help  me  to  get  my 
memory  back,  Tomkins,"  he  said  grumpily.  "Now, 
let's  see  what  I  can  remember  about  yesterday.  Tell 
me  exactly  what  I  did  yesterday.  Begin  at  my  getting 
up — what  time  did  I  get  up?  What  did  I  do  after 
breakfast  and  in  the  afternoon?"  said  James  Whit- 
aker. 

"Well,  your  Grace  got  up  at  half  past  eight;  you 
had  breakfast  at  half  past  nine ;  and  a  little  while  after 
breakfast  you  saw  Mr.  Brinkman." 

"Who's  Mr.  Brinkman  ?"  James  Whitaker  broke  in. 

"He's  your  steward,  your  Grace — the  steward  as 
manages  the  Lanchester  Abbey  estate.  Then  you  went 


AVHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  43 

for  a  ride  and  came  back  to  lunch ;  and  in  the  afternoon 
you  motored  over  to  Muttlebury  Court,  and  played 
bridge — leastways  I  suppose  your  Grace  played  auc- 
tion. And  you  came  back  to  dinner.  And  after  din- 
ner Mr.  Lowther  motored  over  from  the  Grange,  and 
you  played  billiards  with  him  till  nearly  twelve 
o'clock." 

James  Whitaker  was  annoyed  by  this  versatility  of 
his  predecessor.  On  the  very  first  inquiry  he  had 
learned  of  his  having  three  accomplishments,  riding, 
bridge  and  billiards,  none  of  which  he  possessed  him- 
self. It  was  plain,  therefore,  that  he  would  have  to 
make  some  radical  changes  in  his  predecessor's  habits ; 
and  that  was  the  last  thing  in  the  world  he  wished  to 
do.  But  there  was  no  help  for  it.  He  could  not  ride ; 
indeed  he  had  never  been  on  a  horse  in  his  life.  Also 
he  had  never  touched  a  billiard  cue.  He  had  little  doubt 
that  his  predecessor,  devoting  himself  to  these  pursuits 
from  his  earliest  years,  had  been  a  skilful  rider  and  a 
skilful  billiard  player.  It  would  take  him  years  to  ar- 
rive at  the  same  point  of  skill;  and  in  the  meantime 
his  inaptness  would  continuously  excite  remark.  His 
best  course  was  to  drop  riding  and  billiards  altogether, 
for  though  he  knew  little  of  psychology,  he  thought  it 
probable  that  muscle  memory  was  the  last  memory  one 
would  lose ;  and  it  would  be  dangerous  indeed  to  show 
himself  to  have  lost  his  muscle  memory  in  these  mat- 
ters altogether. 

Bridge  was  another  matter:  he  was  no  card-player, 
"but  he  knew  that  a  knowledge  of  card  games  could  be 
acquired  from  books;  and  it  might  be  wise  to  learn 


44  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

bridge.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  was  only  going 
to  play  the  duke  for  two  or  three  days.  It  was  odd 
how  difficult  he  found  it  to  keep  this  fact  in  his  mind. 

He  pondered  the  information  which  Tomkins  had 
given  him  for  four  or  five  minutes.  Then  leaving  him 
setting  out  his  clothes  for  dinner,  he  went  down-stairs 
to  begin  his  exploration  of  the  Abbey.  His  heart  at 
once  began  to  swell  proudly  with  the  sense  that  he  was 
the  possessor  of  these  magnificent  rooms,  so  full  of 
beautiful  things — costly  beautiful  things.  He  had  a 
real  feeling  for  beauty;  but  he  had  been  for  so  long 
harried  by  money  worries  that  even  now,  when  he 
found  himself  the  unembarrassed,  if  temporary,  pos- 
sessor of  these  beautiful  things,  he  could  not  help  re- 
garding them  with  the  appraising  eye  of  the  dealer. 
He  could  not  help  translating  their  value  into  dollars 
and  cents,  or  rather,  to  be  exact,  into  hundreds  of 
dollars,  or  thousands  of  dollars;  for  the  Lanchester 
heirlooms,  pictures,  sculptures,  tapestries,  armor, 
bronzes  and  ivories  are  as  fine  as  any  in  England. 
Once  more  forgetting  that  he  was  only  playing  the 
duke  for  three  days,  he  promised  himself  several  weeks 
of  pleasure  from  their  contemplation. 

But  at  the  moment  it  was  chiefly  the  dealer's  need 
to  put  a  price  on  beautiful  things  that  kept  him  inside 
the  Abbey.  Through  the  long  open  windows  came 
the  fresh  delightful  smell  of  the  earth,  rejoicing  after 
the  storm,  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers,  the  song  of  the 
birds;  and  now  that  his  head  was  clear  and  most  of 
his  weariness  removed  by  sleep,  they  called  him  out 
into  the  gardens  with  a  stronger  appeal  of  beauty; 


LWHITAKER'S   DUKEDOM  45 

and  at  last  he  went  out  through  one  of  the  windows  of 
the  blue  drawing-room  on  to  the  terrace.  He  walked: 
across  the  lawn  to  the  white  marble  balustrade,  so  care- 
fully kept,  and  looked  down  on  mile  on  mile  of  mea- 
dow and  woodland,  brightened  here  and  there  by  a 
gleaming  reach  of  the  Wyper.  He  leaned  upon  the 
balustrade,  feasting  his  town-weary  eyes  on  the  glo- 
rious scene;  and  once  more  his  heart  swelled  at  the 
thought  that  he  was  the  owner  of  it.  He  stood  striv- 
ing to  grasp  what  these  great  possessions  might  mean 
for  him. 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  a  gong,  and  took 
it  that  it  was  the  gong  for  dinner.  He  went  back  into 
the  Abbey,  and  in  the  great  hall  he  learned  from  Jen- 
kinson  that  it  was  the  dressing-gong,  that  dinner 
would  be  in  half  an  hour.  He  went  up  to  his  bedroom 
and  found  Tomkins  awaiting  him  with  his  evening 
clothes  set  out  ready  to  put  on.  Tomkins  told  him  that 
his  bath  was  ready,  and  he  went  to  it  eagerly,  wishing 
that  he  had  thought  of  taking  one  sooner.  He  locked 
the  dressing-room  door  that  Tomkins  might  have  no 
chance  of  perceiving  how  different  his  feet  were  from 
those  of  his  predecessor. 

The  bath  cleared  his  head  yet  more,  so  that  when 
he  came  out  of  it,  his  headache  had  nearly  gone.  Tom- 
kins  hovered  about  him  while  he  dressed ;  but  while  he 
was  putting  on  his  collar,  he  went  to  fetch  him  a  rose 
from  the  garden,  and  James  Whitaker  found  himself 
confronted  with  the  difficulty  of  tying  his  white  tie. 
He  perceived  that  this  was  a  muscle  memory;  and 
his  having  forgotten  how  to  do  it  would  look  bad,  for 


46  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

doubtless,  after  his  long  experience,  his  predecessor 
had  tied  his  white  tie  faultlessly.  But  he  himself  had 
never  been  able  to  tie  a  bow  with  any  neatness  in  his 
life ;  and  he  crumpled  it  badly.  He  was  regarding  the 
result  of  his  efforts  ruefully,  when  Tomkins  came 
back,  bringing  a  rosebud  set  in  a  spray  of  maidenhair 
fern.  He  started  in  surprise  at  the  sight  of  James 
iWhitaker  and  said : 

"Your  Grace  has  forgotten  that,  too !" 

"Forgotten  what?"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"That  your  Grace  can't  tie  a  white  tie,  and  I  al- 
ways tie  it  for  you,"  said  Tomkins ;  and  he  hurried  to 
a  drawer,  and  took  out  another. 

James  Whitaker  was  indeed  interested  to  hear  that 
the  likeness  between  him  and  his  predecessor  was  so 
close  as  to  extend  even  to  this  trivial  incapacity.  Their 
resemblance  in  this  trifle  touched  him ;  and  for  the  first 
time  he  felt  a  sense  of  sympathy  with  the  man  who  was 
lying  under  the  great  oak  on  the  hill  in  the  wood.  Also 
he  was  relieved  to  learn  that  he  was  not  called  upon 
to  tie  his  own  white  ties. 

Tomkins  tied  the  tie;  James  Whitaker  put  on  his 
coat  and  waistcoat  and  went  down-stairs.  He  found 
that  he  was  to  dine  in  a  charming  room,  called  from  its 
paneling  the  cedar  dining-room;  and  he  sat  down  at 
the  table  gleaming  with  silver  and  glass  and  bright 
with  flowers,  with  a  fine  sense  of  being  luxurious.  He 
was  hungry,  but  he  did  not  allow  his  hunger  to  over- 
come his  discretion;  and  under  the  eyes  of  Jenkinson 
he  ate  his  food  in  a  somewhat  mincing  fashion.  It  was 
the  meal  of  a  dream,  yet  a  simple  enough  meal :  a  clear 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  47 

soup,  boiled  salmon,  a  young  chicken,  gooseberry  tart 
and  cheese  straws.  But  to  James  Whitaker  it  was 
the  last  cry  of  luxury;  never  before  in  his  life  had  he 
eaten  delicate  food,  properly  cooked. 

The  hock  and  the  champagne  were  excellent;  but 
he  was  careful  to  drink  no  more  than  a  glass  of  hock 
and  two  glasses  of  champagne,  for  he  was  resolved 
to  have  his  wits  always  about  him.  When  dinner  was 
at  an  end,  he  sat  drinking  his  coffee,  sipping  a  glass  of 
'65  brandy,  and  smoking  a  large  and  admirable  cigar, 
in  a  glorious,  beatific  content. 

He  drank  his  coffee  and  brandy  slowly,  then  he  said 
to  Jenkinson:  "I  wonder  if  there's  any  chance  of  Mn 
Lowther  coming  over  to  play  billiards  to-night." 

"I  can't  say,  your  Grace.  You  don't  remember 
whether  you  asked  him  to  come  or  not,  your  Grace  ?" 
said  Jenkinson. 

"I  don't,"  said  James  Whitaker  with  decision. 
"But  if  he  does  come,  you  can  tell  him  that  I  have 
been  struck  by  lightning  and  don't  want  to  see  anybody 
— don't  feel  up  to  it — anybody  except  the  doctor,  that 
is.  Oh,  yes :  and  say  I'm  sorry  to  have  brought  him 
over  for  nothing.  Where's  my  cigar-case?" 

Jenkinson  brought  him  a  cigar-case,  and  he  put 
three  of  the  fine  large  cigars  into  it.  Then  he  told 
Jenkinson  to  take  a  large  comfortable  chair  out  on 
the  terrace  for  him,  and  another  for  Doctor  Arbuthnot, 
and  bring  whisky  and  brandy  and  soda  when  he  came. 
Jenkinson  brought  the  chairs  to  the  end  of  the  terrace. 
James  Whitaker  sat  down  and  looked  dreamily  out 
over  the  moonlit  landscape.  For  a  while  he  pondered 


48  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

the  admirable  dinner  he  had  eaten.  Then  he  resolved 
that,  unless  anything  untoward  which  he  could  not  at 
the  moment  foresee,  happened,  he  would  play  the  de- 
lightful part  of  the  Duke  of  Lanchester  for  four  or  five 
days,  instead  of  for  two  or  three.  After  all,  he  was 
in  an  extraordinarily  advantageous  position:  he  could 
disappear  so  easily  and  utterly  into  a  natural  hiding- 
place  there  was  no  finding. 

Presently  the  excellent  dinner  he  had  enjoyed  set 
his  mind  working;  and  a  very  happy  thought  came  to 
him.  He  would  rid  himself  of  the  possibility  of  riding 
or  playing  billiards  by  asking  Doctor  Arbuthnot  to 
treat  him  for  a  numb,  partly  paralyzed  right  arm.  Then 
he  need  never  mount  a  horse,  or  touch  a  cue.  Then 
came  another  happy  thought :  he  would  also  have  Doc- 
tor Arbuthnot  treat  him  for  a  stiffness  of  the  muscles 
of  his  throat :  that  would  account  for  any  difference  in 
his  voice  from  that  of  the  late  duke. 

Presently  Doctor  Arbuthnot  came,  felt  his  pulse, 
took  his  temperature,  and  expressed  his  approval  of 
both.  Then  James  Whitaker  told  him  of  the  stiffness 
of  his  arm  and  the  muscles  of  his  throat. 

Doctor  Arbuthnot  listened  to  him  with  a  grave  face, 
and  said:  "I  was  expecting  something  of  the  kind. 
In  fact,  I  noticed  a  change  in  your  Grace's  voice — 
not  merely  that  it  was  husky,  but  that  it  was  deeper 
in  tone.  But  I  expect  that  we  shall  be  able  to  deal 
with  it.  The  stiffness  will  probably  yield  to  salicylate. 
Of  course  it  is  too  early  for  your  Grace  to  have  re- 
covered your  memory  at  all?" 


AVHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  49 

"I  remember  some  things  and  forget  others,"  said 
James  Whitaker  quickly.  "I  suppose  I  had  better  rest 
my  arm  till  the  stiffness  goes — if  it  does  go.  How 
would  it  be  if  I  were  to  wear  it  in  a  sling?" 

He  thought  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  he  were  thus 
to  advertise  the  fact  that  it  was  impossible  for  him 
to  ride  or  play  billiards. 

"By  all  means.  Your  Grace  couldn't  do  better  than 
carry  it  in  a  sling  till  we  see  how  the  salicylate  works," 
said  Doctor  Arbuthnot  cheerily. 

"Then  I  will,"  said  James  Whitaker. 

Jenkinson  came,  bringing  the  whisky  and  soda. 
James  Whitaker  invited  the  doctor  to  help  himself  to 
a  drink  and  gave  him  a  cigar.  Doctor  Arbuthnot  was 
deeply  impressed  and  flattered  by  the  attention;  the 
late  duke  had  never  so  unbent ;  and  his  heart  warmed 
toward  his  illustrious  patient. 

When  the  doctor  had  taken  his  first  drink  of  the 
whisky  and  soda,  James  Whitaker  said  glumly:  "It's 
odd  that  you  should  know  more  about  me  than  I  know 
about  myself." 

"It  is  indeed,  your  Grace,"  said  the  doctor.  "Is 
there  anything  your  Grace  wants  particularly  to 
know?" 

"There  are  many  things  I  want  particularly  to 
know,"  said  James  Whitaker,  even  more  glumly. 

"Well — er — as  a  matter  of  fact — living  so  near  all 
these  years — and  attending  the  family  when  they  were 
at  the  Abbey — and  yourself  when  you  had  the  mea- 
sles— I  have  taken  a  natural  interest  in  your  career. 


50  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

Besides,  I  have  always  been  hearing  about  your  Grace. 
Naturally  everybody  around  the  Abbey  takes  a  great 
interest  in  you." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what :  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  all 
about  myself,  beginning  at  the  beginning — from  the 
time  I  was  born,"  said  James  Whitaker  firmly. 

Doctor  Arbuthnot  needed  no  pressing;  he  was  be- 
yond words  delighted  to  be  of  other  than  professional 
service  to  his  illustrious  patient.  Even  by  the  light  of 
the  moon  James  Whitaker  could  see  his  ruddy  face 
darken  with  the  flush  of  pleasure,  and  the  pleased 
sparkle  of  his  eyes. 

He  did  begin  at  the  beginning;  indeed  he  began  by 
saying :  "Your  Grace  was  born  on  the  fifteenth  of  June, 
1882";  and  as  he  unfolded  the  history  of  the  late  duke 
it  grew  clear  that  he  had  indeed  given  it  his  best  at- 
tention. It  presently  struck  James  Whitaker  that  it 
bore  a  curious  resemblance  to  his  own  history.  There 
was  not  only  the  coincidence  of  date  in  their  births, 
but  also  of  place:  the  duke's  mother  had  been  taken 
by  surprise ;  and  he  had  been  born  at  a  hotel  in  Ken- 
sington, within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  house  in 
which  he  had  himself  been  born.  The  duke  had 
gone  to  Eton  the  same  term  as  he  himself  had 
gone  to  St.  Paul's  School,  and  he  had  become  duke 
at  about  the  same  time  as  he  himself  had  been  set 
adrift  on  the  world  to  earn  his  own  living.  He 
had  married  in  the  June  (the  doctor  could  not  re- 
member the  day)  of  the  same  year  in  which  he  him- 
self had  married  in  June;  and  though  the  doctor  grew 
very  discreet  arid  diplomatic  in  talking  of  his  married 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  51 

life,  it  was  clear  that  he  had  married  the  wrong 
woman.  The  duchess,  however,  had  died  within  two 
years  of  their  marriage.  Also  it  was  clear  that  the 
duke  had  been  as  unsuccessful  in  politics  as  James 
Whitaker  had  been  in  business.  The  coincidences  were 
curious;  and  then  there  was  the  most  striking  coinci- 
dence of  all:  they  had  both  been  struck  by  the  same 
flash  of  lightning. 

For  all  his  wife's  astrology,  James  Whitaker  was 
no  believer  in  the  influence  of  the  stars  on  human 
destinies;  but  he  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  iron- 
monger who  had  been  born  within  three  minutes  of 
George  III,  had,  in  his  sphere,  enjoyed  the  same  for- 
tunes and  suffered  the  same  vicissitudes  as  that  mon- 
arch, and  had  expired  about  the  same  moment.  He 
was  no  believer  in  the  influence  of  the  stars 
yet  that  ironmonger  had  been  the  very  image  of  George 
III.  It  was  odd  that  rather  more  than  a  hundred 
years  later  he  should  find  like  coincidences  in  his  own 
life  and  that  of  the  late  Duke  of  Lanchester. 

He  kept  the  doctor's  story  plain  and  clear  by  an  oc- 
casional question.  James  Whitaker  enjoyed  an  excel- 
lent memory;  but  if  he  had  not  enjoyed  that  excellent 
memory,  he  would  have  had  no  need  of  a  note-book, 
since  the  story  so  interested  him  that  every  important 
fact  in  it  at  once  impressed  itself  clearly  and  deeply 
on  his  mind. 

When  it  came  to  an  end  he  said :  "I  wonder  if  that 
lightning-stroke  has  changed  my  character  and  dis- 
position at  all.     What  kind  of  a  disposition  have  I?" 
The  doctor  hesitated  and  with  an  air  of  some  dis- 


52  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

comfort  fidgeted  in  his  chair ;  then  he  said :  "Well — 
I — er — I  should  say  that  your  Grace  had  an — er — er — 
an  eminently  ducal  disposition." 

"A  bit  nasty?     Eh?"  said  James  Whitaker. 

"No — no — not  nasty — oh,  no,"  said  the  doctor. 

"A  bit  short  in  the  temper,  then  ?" 

"Well — a  little  impatient,  perhaps,"  said  the  doctor, 
in  the  tone  of  one  making  a  generous  admission. 

"Well,  I  don't  seem  to  have  changed  in  that  respect, 
anyhow,"  said  James  Whitaker.  "I'm  still  quite  short 
in  the  temper." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  the  doctor  quickly. 
"I  fancied  that  your  Grace  had  become  more  genial. 
But  that  mightn't  be  the  result  of  the  stroke.  I  haven't 
seen  your  Grace — not  to  talk  to,  at  least — for  nearly 
a  year." 

James  Whitaker  pondered  this  matter  for  nearly 
a  minute.  Plainly  the  husky  growling  he  had  adopted 
had  been  well  in  accord  with  his  predecessor's  char- 
acter. Then  he  said:  "And  what  about  women?" 

Doctor  Arbuthnot  rose  hastily  and  snatched  his 
watch  out  of  his  pocket :  "Oh,  there  have  been  stories, 
your  Grace — there  have  been  stories.  But  I  never  paid 
any  attention  to  them — never,"  he  said  quickly,  and 
in  a  very  uneasy  voice.  "But  I  beg  your  Grace's  par- 
don— but  I  was  quite  forgetting — a  patient — a  very 
difficult  case — my  visit  is  already  overdue.  I  must 
rush  away — I  must  really." 

"Of  course — of  course.  Good  night,  Doctor — 
good  night,"  said  James  Whitaker,  holding  out  his 
hand. 


LWHITAKER'S   DUKEDOM  53 

The  doctor  shook  it  warmly  and  bade  him  good; 
night  warmly.  Then  he  hurried  along  the  terrace, 
down  the  steps  and  across  the  garden  to  the  gate 
opening  into  the  park.  Once  in  it  and  buried,  as  he 
believed,  in  shades  of  night  James  Whitaker  perceived 
that  the  glowing  end  of  his  cigar  moved  more  slowly. 
He  suspected  that  the  doctor  breathed  the  deep  sigh 
of  a  man  who  has  escaped  from  a  very  awkward  situ- 
ation. He  frowned  deeply:  plainly  women  were  the 
fly,  or  rather  the  flies,  in  the  ointment. 


CHAPTER  IV 

JAMES  WHITAKER  sat  for  a  while  longer,  gaz- 
ing out  over  the  moonlit  landscape  with  much 
less  pleasure.  Then  he  rose  and  went  gloomily  into 
the  Abbey.  He  went  gloomily  to  bed;  and  his  last 
thought  was  that,  in  view  of  these  women,  it  was 
probably  a  very  good  thing  indeed  that  he  was  only 
to  play  the  duke  for  four  or  five  days. 

He  awoke  next  morning  in  a  far  more  cheerful 
spirit.  His  weariness  had  gone;  his  headache  had 
gone;  and  he  was  filled  with  the  liveliest  expectation 
of  pleasant  things.  He  found  that  it  was  only  half  past 
seven,  rose  and  drew  up  the  blinds.  The  sunlight 
came  streaming  into  the  room;  and  in  the  morning 
haze  the  scene  beneath  his  eyes  was  of  another  beauty. 
The  air  was  ringing  with  the  songs  of  skylarks  soar- 
ing above  the  park,  and  the  thrushes  and  blackbirds 
and  finches  in  the  trees  in  the  gardens.  He  piled  his 
pillows  on  the  top  of  the  cushions  from  the  easy 
chairs,  so  that  he  could  lie  and  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  again  stretched  himself  out  luxuriously  in 
bed.  By  turns  he  dozed  and  enjoyed  the  beauty  of 
the  morning  with  a  growing  sense  of  luxury,  till  Tom- 
kins  came,  bringing  tea. 

For  the  moment  James  Whitaker  became  the  dealer 
again,  and  appraised  the  old  silver  teapot  and  cream- 

54 


AVHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  55 

jug  at  at  least  eight  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents  the 
ounce,  the  old  Worcester  teacup  and  saucer  at  ten 
dollars  and  twenty-five  cents.  Then  only  did  his  eye 
begin  to  take  its  pleasure  in  them.  But  it  hurt  him 
to  see  them  in  actual  use,  exposed  to  the  careless 
treatment  of  servants.  That  feeling  soon  passed  in 
the  enjoyment  of  the  delicate  China  tea,  the  cream, 
and  the  thin,  thickly-buttered  slices  of  brown  bread. 

When  he  had  finished,  Tomkins  brought  him  ciga- 
rettes, and  he  smoked  one  with  the  most  luxurious 
pleasure  while  the  valet  busied  himself  in  the  dress- 
ing-room, setting  out  his  clothes  for  the  morning. 
James  Whitaker  accepted  his  suggestions  about  the 
suit  he  should  wear.  Then  the  happy  thought  came 
to  him  to  bid  Tomkins  have  at  hand  the  coat  which 
had  been  burned  by  the  lightning,  to  show  to  any  re- 
porters who  might  come  down  from  the  London  papers. 
This  gave  him  a  good  pretext  for  explaining  that  the 
lightning,  striking  him  about  the  right  shoulder,  had 
numbed  and  stiffened  his  arm,  and  had  also  deepened 
his  voice  by  stiffening  the  muscles  of  his  throat.  He 
felt  it  to  be  most  important  that  the  servants  should 
have  the  right  story.  Then  he  bade  him  find  a  scarf 
of  some  kind  to  make  a  sling  for  his  arm. 

Tomkins  went  to  the  bathroom  and  presently  came 
back  to  say  that  the  bath  was  ready.  James  Whitaker 
was  careful  to  slip  his  feet  into  slippers  without  letting 
Tomkins  see  them.  He  lingered  in  his  bath,  enjoying  it 
exceedingly.  He  had  never  before  been  in  a  big  proce- 
lain  bath  fitted  with  a  spray  and  a  spinal  douche,  and 
he  played  with  them.  Never  before  had  he  dried 


56  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

himself  on  such  a  large  and  satisfactory  bath  towel. 
He  was  surprised  to  find  not  only  a  clean  shirt,  but 
also  clean  underlinen,  or,  to  be  exact,  undersilk,  set 
out  for  him  to  wear:  since  the  day  was  Thursday,  it 
looked  as  if  the  duke  had  had  fresh  underlinen  every 
day.  He  put  on  the  pants  and  waistcoat  and  socks 
with  a  full  pleasure  in  their  softness. 

Then  he  put  on  his  dressing-gown  again,  went  to  the 
dressing-room  door  and  said  to  Tomkins:  "What 
about  shaving?  Where  are  my  razors?" 

"I'm  waiting  to  shave  your  Grace,"  said  Tomkins. 

When  he  had  been  shaved,  he  was  careful  to  ask 
Tomkins  whether  the  lightning  had  made  any  differ- 
ence to  his  skin  or  the  growth  of  his  beard.  Tom- 
kins  assured  him  that  it  had  not.  In  a  tone  of  relief, 
James  Whitaker  asked  at  what  time  he  breakfasted. 
He  learned  that  there  was  no  fixed  hour,  that  he  could 
breakfast  whenever  he  liked;  and  he  bade  Tomkins 
tell  Jenkinson  that  he  would  breakfast  in  half  an  hour. 
Then  he  went  out  into  the  gardens  and  strolled  about 
them,  exploring  and  enjoying  them.  The  breakfast- 
gong  called  him  from  his  exploration,  and  he  enjoyed 
the  excellent  breakfast  thoroughly. 

He  felt  that  Jenkinson  was  the  proper  imposing 
person  to  deal  with  any  reporters  who  might  come; 
and  at  breakfast  he  instructed  him  to  see  to  the  matter, 
and  further  to  see  that  he  himself  was  not  troubled 
by  them.  After  breakfast,  as  he  smoked  one  of  the 
fine  Coronas,  he  examined  with  loving  appreciation 
the  oriental  treasures  in  lacquer  and  metal  and  ivory 
in  the  yellow  drawing-room. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  57 

The  Abbey  was  indeed  a  glorious  place,  and  the  life 
of  a  duke  a  glorious  life.  He  saw  that  if  use  should 
blunt  his  pleasure  in  the  material  luxuries,  the  count- 
less beautiful  things  it  held  would  be  a  joy  to  him  for 
years.  He  was  of  a  sudden  grieved  by  the  thought 
that  in  four  or  five  days  he  would  be  leaving  them 
to  another  possessor,  who  would  assuredly  not  ap- 
preciate them  as  fully  as  he. 

Then  he  betook  himself  to  the  duke's  sitting-room, 
thinking  that  he  had  better  set  about  acquiring  some 
more  knowledge  to  strengthen  his  position.  He  ex- 
amined the  papers  in  the  bureau.  He  did  not  obtain 
from  them  much  information  about  his  predecessor's 
*life,  but  every  piece  of  knowledge  of  it,  however 
trifling,  he  could  acquire  might  prove  useful  to  him. 
Indeed,  a  display  of  knowledge  of  some  intimate  trifle 
might  easily  stand  him  in  better  stead  than  a  display 
of  knowledge  of  some  more  important  matter.  It  was 
hardly  likely  that  in  the  four  or  five  days  he  proposed 
to  remain  at  the  Abbey  he  would  be  called  upon  to  dis- 
play such  knowledge;  yet  it  was  always  possible  that 
he  might;  and  he  went  through  the  papers  the  more 
carefully  because  at  the  back  of  his  mind  was  the 
feeling  that  he  might  change  his  mind  and  stay  a  week. 
The  longer  he  stayed  the  more  people  he  would  meet. 

He  was  surprised  not  to  find  much  more  money  in 
the  bureau.  Then  he  bethought  himself  that  these  old 
bureaus  were  nearly  always  fitted  with  secret  drawers ; 
and  with  his  knowledge  of  old  furniture  he  was  not 
long  finding  two  of  them.  In  the  larger  were  one 
hundred  and  sixty-five  dollars  in  gold;  in  the  smaller 


58  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

four  hundred  dollars  in  bank-notes.  He  left  the  money 
where  it  was.  He  did  not  know  what  he  would  do 
about  it.  With  regard  to  the  money  in  his  pocket 
he  did  not  hesitate :  Millicent  must  have  some  money 
to  go  on  with.  He  found  a  sheet  of  paper  without  an 
address  stamped  on  it  and  wrote  to  her  that  he  would 
not  be  home  for  some  days,  and  that  it  was  no  use 
giving  her  an  address  to  write  to,  for  he  would  be 
moving  about.  He  enclosed  fifty  dollars.  She  would 
naturally  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Robert  Unwin 
had  lent  him  the  five  hundred  dollars.  He  had  finished 
the  letter  and  addressed  it  when  Jenkinson  came  to 
him  and  said  that  Mr.  Brinkman  had  come  and  was 
in  the  office. 

"In  the  office?  I've  forgotten  where  the  office  is, 
iWhat  a  beastly  nuisance  this  loss  of  memory  is!" 
growled  James  Whitaker. 

"Yes,  your  Grace.  But  Doctor  Arbuthnot  says  that 
you  will  have  it  back  in  a  few  days,"  said  Jenkinson 
in  a  soothing  tone.  "Shall  I  tell  Mr.  Brinkman  to 
come  to  your  Grace?" 

"No.  I'll  come  along  to  the  office.  I  may  as  well 
know  where  it  is,"  growled  James  Whitaker,  rising. 

Jenkinson  led  the  way  down-stairs,  across  the  big 
liall  and  through  a  door  at  the  back  of  it,  into  a  long 
corridor,  which,  from  the  smell  of  cooking  which 
Came  down  it,  plainly  led  to  the  kitchens.  He  opened 
the  first  door  on  the  left,  and  ushered  James  Whitaker 
into  a  small  room  furnished  as  an  office.  A  safe  stood 
in  the  corner,  and  on  the  shelves  of  a  bookcase,  against 
the  left-hand  wall,  were  the  ledgers  in  which  the  ac- 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  59 

counts  of  the  estate  were  kept.  At  a  desk  on  the  right- 
hand  side  of  the  room  sat  the  steward. 

''Good  morning,  Brinkman,"  said  James  Whitaker, 
in  the  deep  husky  tones  he  was  using,  and  he  consid- 
ered Mr.  Brinkman's  face  attentively,  for  here,  prob- 
ably, was  a  man  of  keener  intelligence  than  the  serv- 
ants with  whom  he  had  come  into  contact. 

"Good  morning,  your  Grace,"  said  the  steward, 
rising  quickly,  and  rubbing  his  hands  together.  "I 
hope  your  Grace  is  getting  over  your  unfortunate  ac- 
cident. A  providential  escape — truly  providential." 

James  Whitaker  saw  that  he  would  do  well  to  be 
careful  of  Mr.  Brinkman.  A  lean  keen-faced  man 
with  shifty  ferrety  eyes,  high  cheek-bones,  and  thin 
lips  which  closed  tightly  at  the  end  of  each  sentence, 
he  looked  acute  indeed. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  was  lucky,"  growled  James  Whit- 
aker. "But  it's  quite  bad  enough  as  it  is,  with  a  stiff 
arm  and  a  stiff  throat ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that 
it's  muddled  my  head  so  abominably  that  I  never  know 
what  I  am  going  to  remember  and  what  I  am  going 
to  forget." 

"Dear,  dear!  That  must  be  annoying,  your  Grace 
• — very  annoying  indeed,"  said  the  steward  sympa- 
thetically; and  James  Whitaker  saw  a  swiftly  passing 
gleam  of  satisfaction  in  his  eye,  as  if  his  employer's 
infirmity  was  not  wholly  unpleasant  to  him.  Then  he 
went  on :  "But  Doctor  Arbuthnot  says  that  your  Grace 
will  soon  recover." 

"I  hope  so,"  growled  James  Whitaker,  walking  to 
the  window,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  trousers 


60  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

pockets,  and  staring  out  of  it.  "Is  there  anything  you 
want  to  see  me  about?" 

"There's  only  that  matter  of  Longmeadow  Farm. 
Wyse  writes  that  he  can  not  possibly  find  the  money 
this  month  to  pay  the  two  quarters'  rent  he  owes,  so 
that  there  is  really  no  reason  why  your  Grace  should 
not  turn  him  out  and  let  Greaves  have  his  farm  as  well 
as  the  River  Farm.  He  will  turn  the  bulk  of  it  into 
arable  land,  and  increase  its  value." 

James  Whitaker  felt  an  instant  sympathy  with  the 
man  who  could  not  pay  his  rent,  and  said :  "Yes,  but  I 
don't  remember  exactly.  Why  is  it  Wyse  can't  pay  ?" 

"Ah,  I  suppose  your  Grace  has  forgotten  that  he 
runs  a  big  milk  business.  He  supplies  half  Lanchester 
with  milk;  and  the  dry  summer  of  last  year  hit  him 
very  hard.  In  fact,  he  declares  that  it  practically 
meant  three  winters'  running;  for  he  has  had  to  feed 
his  cows  on  hay  and  cake,  not  only  for  the  last  two 
winters,  but  most  of  last  summer  as  well,  since  there 
was  no  grass.  Of  course,  if  your  Grace  liked  to  wait 
for  the  rent,  he  is  nearly  sure  to  recover  and  pay  off 
the  arrears,  though  he  really  did  over-extend  his  busi- 
ness without  enough  capital." 

"Then  why  turn  him  out?"  growled  James  Whit- 
aker. 

"Because  Greaves  is  willing  to  pay  your  Grace  fif- 
teen per  cent,  more  rent  for  Longmeadow  Farm.  In- 
deed, it  seems  almost  providential  that  Wyse  should 
have  come  to  grief  in  this  way." 

"Fifteen  per  cent.?  What  does  that  come  to  in 
money?"  growled  James  Whitaker. 


LWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  61 

"Twelve  hundred  dollars,  your  Grace." 

James  Whitaker  thought  a  while.  He  must  move 
carefully ;  then  he  said :  "Well,  why  haven't  we  turned 
Wyse  out  before  this?" 

"Because  the  Wyses  have  lived  at  Longmeadow 
Farm  for  over  two  hundred  years;  and  your  Grace 
was  hesitating  because  there  would  be  a  good  deal  of 
unpleasant  talk,  and  a  certain  amount  of  unpopularity 
if  he  was  turned  out." 

"Ah,  yes :  I  remember  now.  I  must  think  it  over," 
said  James  Whitaker,  and  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  frowning. 

Then  he  stopped  in  front  of  the  safe  and  looked 
into  it.  On  the  topmost  shelf  were  three  bank-books. 
He  then  took  them  out,  and  said  casually:  "I  have 
quite  forgotten  what  my  balance  is." 

He  looked  through  the  three  bank-books.  One  of 
them  was  a  current  account  at  the  Lanchester  bank, 
which  was  evidently  the  estate  account.  There  was 
a  balance  in  his  favor  of  thirty-seven  hundred  and  fif- 
teen dollars.  The  second  bank-book  contained  his 
current  account  at  Coutts'  bank;  there  was  a  balance 
of  seventeen  hundred  dollars  in  his  favor,  and  he 
perceived  that  five  thousand  dollars  had  been  paid  into 
it  every  month.  The  third  bank-book  contained  his 
deposit  account  at  Coutts'  bank ;  and  he  found  that  he 
had  thirty-five  thousand  dollars  on  deposit  there. 

He  put  them  back  into  the  safe  and  said :  "Twelve 
hundred  dollars  are  twelve  hundred  dollars." 

"That  was  what  your  Grace  said  on  Saturday,"  said 
Mr.  Brinkman  quickly;  and  James  Whitaker  was 


62  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

thankful  to  him  for  throwing  some  more  light  on  his 
predecessor's  character. 

"And  you  advise  me  to  clear  Wyse  out  and  let 
Greaves  have  Longmeadow  Farm  ?" 

"Certainly,  your  Grace — certainly,"  said  Mr.  Brink- 
man  eagerly. 

James  Whitaker  wondered  how  much  Greaves  was 
going  to  pay  in  the  way  of  a  reward  to  his  steward 
if  he  procured  Longmeadow  Farm  for  him.  He  said: 
"Well,  I  must  think  about  it — I  must  think  about  it. 
Don't  take  any  further  steps  in  the  matter  till  I've  con- 
sidered it." 

"Certainly  not,  your  Grace — certainly  not,"  said 
Mr.  Brinkman  quickly,  but  he  looked  pleased,  as  if  he 
thought  the  matter  settled  as  he  wished  it. 

James  Whitaker  left  him  and  walked  down  the  cor- 
ridor into  the  great  kitchen  at  the  end  of  it.  His  sud- 
den appearance  produced  something  of  a  flurry.  The 
chef,  who  was  sitting  in  an  easy  chair,  apparently  giv- 
ing instructions  to  his  staff,  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
bowed  gracefully,  and  said :  "Bon  jour,  Monsieur  le 
Due"  His  assistants,  a  younger  Frenchman  and  three 
buxom  young  women,  gathered  behind  him,  bowing 
or  courtesying. 

James  Whitaker  waved  his  hand  graciously  and 
said:  "It's  all  right — it's  all  right.  Don't  disturb 
yourselves." 

He  looked  slowly  round  the  great,  airy,  clean 
kitchen,  so  spick  and  span,  and  bright  with  burnished 
copper  .vessels,  turned  and  came  out  of  it. 

He  walked  back  to  his  study  and  sat  down  to  con- 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  63 

sider  this  matter  of  business  which  needed  dealing 
with.  He  felt  that  during  the  four  or  five  days  he  pro- 
posed to  stay  at  the  Abbey  he  must  by  no  means  neg- 
lect the  estate.  Twelve  hundred  dollars  a  year 
was  a  considerable  sum  of  money,  a  comfortable  in- 
come, indeed.  But  his  sympathy  was  with  Wyse,  the 
man  who  could  not  pay  his  rent  by  no  fault  of  his  own. 
The  question  whether  it  was  worth  a  duke's  while  to 
incur  odium  for  a  matter  of  twelve  hundred  dol- 
lars a  year  suddenly  presented  itself  as  of  the 
greatest  importance.  He  could  not  think  that  it  was 
worth  a  duke's  while.  Perhaps  before  deciding  the 
matter,  it  would  be  well  to  see  what  kind  of  a  man 
Wyse  was.  If  he  seemed  the  right  kind  of  man  he 
could  signalize  his  stay  at  Lanchester  Abbey  by  secur- 
ing him  in  the  possession  of  his  farm. 

He  pressed  the  bell;  and  when  Jenkinson  came,  he 
said :  "I've  got  a  motor-car,  haven't  I  ?  I'm  hanged 
if  I  can  remember  for  certain!" 

"Two,  your  Grace — two,"  said  Jenkinson  quickly. 

"Well,  I  want  one  of  them." 

"Yes,  your  Grace.  Will  you  have  the  touring  car 
or  the  racing  car,  and  shall  Salmon  or  Hibbert  drive 
you?" 

"The  touring  car  and  Hibbert,"  said  James  Whit- 
aker,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

In  about  ten  minutes  a  footman  came  to  say  that  the 
car  was  at  the  door. 

James  Whitaker  went  down-stairs  and  found  Jen- 
kinson awaiting  him  with  a  motor-cap  and  a  light 
motor-coat.  He  was  careful  to  keep  his  arm  stiff  as; 


64  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

Jenkinson  helped  him  into  it,  and  put  on  the  sling 
again.  Then  he  went  down  the  steps  to  the  car  and 
said :  "Drive  me  to  Longmeadow  Farm,"  and  stepped 
into  the  tonneau. 

He  had  never  been  in  a  motor-car  before;  and  he 
found  it  delightful.  But  before  it  reached  the  park 
gates  it  was  rushing  along  at  a  speed  which  he  found 
excessive  and  unpleasant. 

When  it  came  out  of  the  park  he  shouted  to  Hib- 
bert:  "Go  slower — a  great  deal  slower!" 

Hibbert  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  him  with  an 
expression  of  such  lively  surprise  as  made  it  plain  to 
James  Whitaker  that  the  late  duke  had  been  fond  of 
scorching.  Also  he  observed,  as  they  ran  through  the 
village  of  Little  Lanchester,  that  two  or  three  women 
stood  in  the  gardens  or  the  doorways  of  their  cot- 
tages, holding  small  children,  hastily  rescued  from  the 
roadway,  with  anxious  troubled  faces.  He  gathered 
from  their  looks  that  the  late  duke  had  been  disliked 
by  them.  For  the  moment  he  thought  that  he  might 
well  set  about  changing  that  feeling ;  then  he  perceived 
that  it  could  not  be  changed  in  the  time  he  would  be  at 
the  Abbey.  The  car  was  now  going  at  a  slower,  en- 
tirely enjoyable  pace,  and  presently  it  turned  into  the 
garden  of  an  old,  red-brick,  gabled  farmhouse,  and 
stopped  before  the  door. 

He  stepped  out  of  the  car,  and  said  with  some  sever- 
ity to  Hibbert :  "Don't  scorch  like  that  again." 

Hibbert  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  the  liveliest 
surprise,  flushed  and  stammered :  "B-b-but  your 
G-G-Grace  always  likes  me  to  g-g-go  fast." 


AVHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  65 

James  Whitaker  saw  that  he  had  made  a  slip,  and 
hesitated;  then  he  growled:  "Not  just  after  I've  been 
struck  by  lightning,  and  have  my  arm  in  a  sling." 

As  he  turned  to  the  front  door  it  opened;  and  a 
pretty  girl  (he  saw  at  the  first  glance  that  she  was  a 
very  pretty  girl,  with  uncommonly  fine  dark  eyes  and 
an  admirable  complexion)  made  to  come  out,  and 
then  at  the  sight  of  him,  started  back,  with  a  very  odd 
expression.  As  he  raised  his  cap,  ungracefully  enough, 
he  looked  into  her  eyes  and  filled  with  the  amazing 
feeling  that  she  knew  his  secret.  He  almost  laughed 
out  at  the  absurdity  of  the  fancy. 

She  -bowed  slightly,  seemed  to  recover  herself,  said 
over  her  shoulder:  "Good-by,  Cissie,"  came  out  of 
the  house,  passed  him  and  walked  down  the  drive. 

He  turned  and  looked  after  her :  her  slim  graceful 
figure  and  light  easy  walk  pleased  his  eye.  At  the 
gate  she  half  turned  and  looked  back  at  him,  then  went 
on  quickly.  He  turned  to  find  another  girl  standing 
in  the  doorway,  looking  at  him  with  an  air  of  surprise. 
She,  too,  was  pretty;  but  her  prettiness  did  not  make 
the  impression  on  him  that  that  of  the  other  girl  had 
done. 

"Miss  Wyse,  isn't  it?"  he  said,  making  a  shot  at  it. 
"May  I  see  your  father?" 

"He's — he's  somewhere  in  the  d-d-dairies.  If  your 
G-Grace  will  come  in,  I'll  send  for  him  at  once,"  she 
said,  stammering  a  little  and  flushing  faintly  in  her 
nervousness. 

He  came  into  a  cool  hall,  fragrant  with  two  bowls 
full  of  roses  set  on  a  high  old  oak  chest;  and  she  led 


66  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

him  to  a  prettily,  simply  furnished  drawing-room,  as 
fragrant  with  flowers  as  the  hall,  and  left  him.  On 
the  instant  his  dealer's  eye  began  to  appraise  the  fur- 
niture and  ornaments  in  it. 

He  shook  himself  and  went  to  the  window.  Before 
his  eyes  stretched  the  valley  of  the  Wyper  from  an- 
other point  of  view,  affording  nearly  as  beautiful  a 
prospect,  though  not  so  wide,  as  that  from  the  terrace 
of  the  Abbey  itself.  Below  him  lay  the  village  nestling 
among  its  trees. 

He  stood  gazing  at  the  prospect,  admiring  it  with 
a  grateful  sense  of  possession  till  the  door  opened  and 
Mr.  Wyse  came  in.  James  Whitaker  turned,  looked 
at  him  keenly  and  liked  his  looks.  He  had  a  shrewd 
intelligent  face,  deeply  tanned ;  and  he  looked  to  possess 
the  energy  and  acumen  to  make  a  business  pay.  But 
also  he  looked  worried,  harassed,  under  the  weather. 
That  air  of  being  under  the  weather,  so  like  the  air  he 
had  himself  been  wearing,  won  James  Whitaker's 
heart;  and  he  held  out  his  hand.  Wyse  took  it  with 
an  air  of  surprise,  respectfully,  but  without  warmth. 

James  Whitaker  perceived  that  he  had  made  a  mis- 
take in  offering  it:  the  late  duke  had  not  been  used 
to  shake  hands  with  his  tenants;  but  he  said  with  an 
unruffled  air:  "Good  morning,  Mr.  Wyse.  I  thought 
I  should  like  to  see  you  myself  about  this  matter  of 
your  rent,  and  hear  what  you  have  to  say  about  it." 

Mr.  Wyse's  face  brightened  a  little  as  he  said:  "I 
never  expected  to  get  the  chance  of  talking  it  over  with 
your  Grace." 

But  he  did  not  look  very  hopeful. 


AVHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  67 

"Well,  of  course  I  don't  know  much  about  busi- 
ness," said  James  Whitaker.  "What  I  want  to  know 
is,  when  do  you  think  you  would  be  able  to  pay  it?" 

"Well,  it's  like  this,  your  Grace,"  said  Wyse;  and 
his  face  brightened  yet  more  as  a  dim  prospect  of  pos- 
sible relief  opened  before  him.  "I  could  raise  the 
money  now,  on  my  stock  and  the  business,  but  at  such 
a  ruinous  rate  of  interest  that  I  should  be  crippled  foil 
years.  What  I  was  thinking  was  that  if  Mr.  Brink — > 
I  mean  your  Grace — wouldn't  give  me  time  to  pay 
these  arrears,  it  would  be  better  to  cut  my  losses,  sell 
the  business  and  enough  of  my  stock  to  pay  my  debts 
and  make  a  fresh  start.  I  should  have  enough  stock 
left  for  a  smaller  farm  on  the  other  side  of  Lanchester ; 
and  I  could  build  up  another  business  in  time." 

"I  see,"  said  James  Whitaker.  "But  if  you  didn't 
sell  your  business,  how  long  would  it  take  you  to  re- 
cover enough  to  pay  off  these  arrears  of  rent?" 

The  farmer  frowned  thoughtfully,  and  said :  "Well, 
if  the  business  goes  on  as  it's  doing  at  present,  your 
Grace,  I  could  clear  them  off  easily  in  a  year.  But 
supposing  it  went  off  a  bit,  I  couldn't  safely  undertake 
to  have  them  paid  off  in  less  than  eighteen  months." 

"But  suppose  there's  another  dry  summer?" 

"There  isn't,  your  Grace.  We  have  had  enough  rain 
already  to  insure  plenty  of  keep  for  the  rest  of  the 
summer,  and  we're  going  to  have  more.  Besides, 
I've  made  over  a  hundred  tons  of  hay." 

"I  see — I  see,"  said  James  Whitaker  thoughtfully. 
"And  of  course,  the  Wyses  have  held  the  farm  for  the 
last  two  hundred  years." 


68  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Two  hundred  and  thirty-three  years,  your  Grace — 
two  hundred  and  thirty-three,"  said  the  farmer  with 
an  air  of  pride. 

"Ah,  yes,  I  was  forgetting  that  extra  thirty-three 
years.  Getting  struck  -by  that  confounded  stroke  of 
lightning  has  muddled  my  head  so.  Well,  Mr.  Wyse, 
you  needn't  worry  any  more  about  these  arrears ;  you 
can  have  the  eighteen  months  to  clear  them  off  in. 
I'll  send  you  a  letter  to  that  effect." 

The  farmer's  face  brightened  till  it  fairly  shone; 
and  he  cried:  "I  always  said  that  your  Grace  wasn't 
as  bad — "  He  pulled  himself  up,  flushing  and  in  a 
confusion.  Then  he  added,  stammering:  "I — I  mean 
that  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  your  Grace — very  much 
obliged  indeed.  I  don't  quite  know  how  to  tell  your 
Grace  how  obliged  I  am." 

"Not  at  all — not  at  all,"  said  James  Whitaker  pleas- 
antly ;  then,  looking  squarely  and  keenly  into  the  farm- 
er's eyes,  he  added:  "By  the  way,  do  you  happen 
to  know  how  much  Greaves  was  going  to  give  Brink- 
man  if  he  got  your  farm  ?" 

Mr.  Wyse  looked  at  him  in  an  astonishment  indeed 
blank,  and  said  rather  faintly:  "Well,  your  Grace,  I 
did  happen  to  hear  that  it  was  to  be  twelve  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars." 

"I  thought  you  were  the  kind  of  man  who  would 
happen  to  hear,"  said  James  Whitaker ;  and  he  chuck- 
led. Then  he  added:  "Well,  I'm  very  glad  to  have 
settled  the  matter  in  a  satisfactory  way.  Good  morn- 
ing, Mr.  Wyse." 

The  farmer  shook  hands  with  him,  this  time  warmly 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  69 

enough,  and  walked  with  him  to  the  front  door  with 
a  beaming  face.  James  Whitaker  bade  Hibbert  drive 
him  home,  and  on  reaching  the  Abbey  betook  himself 
straight  to  the  office. 

As  he  entered  it  Mr.  Brinkman  once  more  started 
up,  rubbing  his  hands. 

"I've  just  been  to  Longmeadow  Farm  and  seen 
Wyse,  and  I've  decided  to  give  him  eighteen  months 
to  clear  off  his  arrears  of  rent.  Just  write  a  letter 
to  say  so,  will  you,  and  send  it  up  for  me  to  sign. 
Wyse  seemed  to  think  that  a  letter  was  the  proper  way 
to  do  it,"  said  James  Whitaker. 

He  did  not  know  how  much  about  business  methods 
his  predecessor  had  known,  and  he  thought  it  well  that 
Wyse  should  be  responsible  for  this  letter. 

Mr.  Brinkman's  face  fell  in  the  most  ludicrous 
fashion,  and  he  glared  at  his  employer  in  angry  as- 
tonishment. His  eyes  flashed,  and  his  thin  lips  bared 
his  teeth  in  an  angry  snarl.  Then  he  cried :  "But, 
your  Grace!  It's — it's  losing  an  opportunity  you  may 
not  get  again  for  years !  A  truly  providential  chance ! 
A  clear  twelve  hundred  a  year — and  an  improving 
property !" 

James  Whitaker  drew  himself  up,  scowling  at  him 
darkly,  a  very  formidable  figure,  and  growled:  "Do 
as  I  tell  you — will  you  ?" 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  went  out  of  the  room  and 
banged  the  door  behind  him.  Mr.  Brinkman  dropped 
heavily  on  to  his  chair. 

James  Whitaker  went  back  to  the  car  and  bade  Hib- 
bert drive  him  to  Lanchester ;  and  since  Hibbert  knew 


70  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

now  the  pace  at  which  he  liked  to  be  driven,  he  en- 
joyed the  drive  exceedingly.  He  was  full  of  satisfac- 
tion with  himself  for  having  secured  Wyse  in  the  pos- 
session of  Longmeadow  Farm;  he  had  a  feeling,  for 
which  he  could  have  found  no  reasonable  grounds, 
that  the  action  in  some  degree  justified  his  assump- 
tion of  the  title ;  and  it  was  a  comforting  feeling. 

When  he  came  into  Lanchester  he  kept  his  eyes 
about  him  for  people  who  greeted  him,  and  gave  them 
back  the  greeting  they  gave  him:  a  man  in  a  motor- 
car waved  his  hand,  he  waved  his ;  several  men  touched 
their  hats  to  him,  he  touched  his.  Only  once  did  he 
have  to  raise  his  hat  to  a  lady,  who  bowed  to  him  from 
a  pony-cart.  He  went  into  the  post-office  and  bought 
a  dollar  and  a  half's  worth  of  postage-stamps,  changing 
one  of  his  fifty-dollar  notes.  As  he  posted  the  letter  to 
Millicent  with  the  fifty  dollars  in  notes  in  it,  he  was 
inclined  to  feel  that  he  had  earned  them  by  his  service 
to  the  reputation  of  the  next  Duke  of  Lanchester  in 
the  matter  of  Wyse. 

Then,  as  he  stepped  back  into  the  car,  he  said  to 
Hibbert:  "Don't  go  straight  home,  take  as  long  a 
round  as  you  can,  so  as  to  get  me  home  in  time  for 
lunch." 

"Yes,  your  Grace.  Which  way  would  your  Grace 
like  to  go?" 

"How  do  I  know?  Don't  you  know  I've  lost  my 
memory?"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

Hibbert  made  a  circuit  of  about  twenty-five  miles, 
driving  him  back  to  the  Abbey,  and  James  Whitaker 
lay  back  in  a  very  pleasant  laziness.  He  felt  that  he 


LWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  71 

had  already  done  his  day's  work,  and  might  now  take 
his  pleasure  with  an  easy  mind.  But  when  he  entered 
the  great  hall  he  received  a  shock,  for  Jenkinson  said 
to  him : 

"If  you  please,  your  Grace,  Lady  Cubbington  and 
Sir  Richard  Starton  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lowther  have 
motored  over  to  lunch." 

James  Whitaker  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  he 
growled:  "Oh,  have  they?  Where  are  they?" 

"Well,  as  your  Grace  hadn't  come  in,  they  thought 
they'd  like  to  play  a  rubber  before  lunch,  and  they're 
playing  in  the  blue  drawing-room,  because  Sir  Rich- 
ard said  it  was  the  prettiest  room  in  the  house." 

"Oh,  are  they?"  growled  James  Whitaker. 


CHAPTER  V 

AS  Jenkinson  slipped  off  James  Whitaker's  coat  he 
,/Y.told  him  that  Doctor  Arbuthnot  had  also  called 
and  that  three  newspaper  reporters  had  come  from 
London.  Doctor  Arbuthnot  had  seemed  very  pleased 
that  he  had  not  thought  it  worth  while  to  stay  at  home 
to  see  him.  The  reporters  had  been  told  the  story, 
shown  the  scorched  coat,  and  gone  away  content. 

James  Whitaker  went  up-stairs  with  his  heart  beat- 
ing quickly  at  the  thought  of  the  ordeal  before  him: 
so  much  would  depend  on  how  he  came  through  it. 
These  visitors  had  indeed  taken  him  by  surprise;  it 
had  been  his  firm  intention  to  see  none  of  the  friends 
of  the  late  duke  during  the  four  or  five  days  of  his  stay 
at  the  Abbey;  he  had  never  foreseen  an  invasion  of 
this  kind.  He  washed  away  the  dust  of  his  drive 
slowly,  letting  his  pulse  resume  its  normal  beat,  re- 
gaining complete  control  of  his  nerves.  When  he  found 
that  he  was  quite  master  of  himself,  he  came  slowly 
down-stairs  and  went  to  the  blue  drawing-room. 

His  guests  were  playing  at  a  table  set  in  the  big  win- 
dow at  the  end  of  the  room.  Absorbed  in  their  game, 
they  did  not  see  him  enter,  and  when  he  came  up  to 
the  table  only  one  of  them,  a  slim  man  with  indolent, 

72 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  73 

half -closed  dark-brown  eyes,  dark-haired  and  rather 
pale,  greeted  him. 

He  drawled:    "How  are  you,  Lanchester?" 

James  Whitaker  perceived  that  his  fear  of  them  had 
been  excessive. 

Their  absorption  gave  him  time  to  study  them.  One 
of  the  women  was  fair,  golden-haired,  blue-eyed,  with 
a  very  clear  pink-and-white  skin  and  delicate  features ; 
the  other  was  dark,  coarse-skinned,  thick-lipped  and 
blunt-nosed.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  she  was  Mrs. 
Lowther.  It  was  the  fair  woman  who  attracted  him, 
even  doubtless  as  she  had  attracted  his  dead  double: 
she  must  be  Lady  Cubbington.  The  other  man  was 
fair,  ruddy  and  snub-nosed,  a  very  common  English 
type. 

Then  the  hand  came  to  an  end,  and  they  all  greeted 
him  together,  noisily. 

Then  the  dark  slim  man  said :  "What's  this  we  hear 
about  your  having  been  struck  by  lightning  and  lost 
your  memory,  Lanchester?" 

"It's  true  enough,"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"You've  lost  your  memory?"  cried  the  fair  woman. 

"And  I've  got  a  stiff  arm  and  my  throat  muscles 
are  so  stiff  it's  a  nuisance  to  speak,"  growled  James 
Whitaker. 

"Yes,  Jenkinson  told  us  you  got  struck  about  the 
chest.  He  was  showing  one  of  those  newspaper  fel- 
lows your  burned  coat  when  we  came  in,"  said  the 
snub-nosed  man. 

"Surely  you  haven't  forgotten  Anne?"  cried  the 
dark  woman,  laughing. 


74  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

James  Whitaker  saw  the  fair  woman  flush  faintly, 
and  he  said  quickly :  "Of  course  I  haven't.  That  isn't 
the  kind  of  thing  one  forgets." 

"Some  people  have  more  of  that  kind  of  thing  to 
remember  than  others,"  said  the  dark  man,  and  he 
laughed  gently. 

"Don't  try  to  score  off  an  invalid,  Sir  Richard.  It 
isn't  fair,"  said  the  dark  woman. 

"I  wouldn't  score  off  any  invalid  but  Lanchester, 
Mrs.  Lowther.  Well  or  ill,  there's  no  getting  at  him." 

James  Whitaker  could  now  place  every  one:  the 
snub-nosed  man  must  be  Mr.  Lowther. 

They  rose,  clamoring  for  lunch,  and  Lady  Cubbing- 
ton  walked  -beside  James  Whitaker  down  the  room  and 
across  the  hall,  plying  him  with  questions:  How  did 
it  feel  to  be  struck  by  lightning?  How  did  it  feel  to 
lose  your  memory?  Was  his  arm  very  stiff?  Was  it 
very  painful  to  speak?  She  hardly  waited  for  an  an- 
swer to  a  question ;  and  he  was  obliged  to  her.  Lunch 
was  less  of  an  ordeal  than  he  had  expected.  Lady  Cub- 
bington  and  Mrs.  Lowther  talked  all  the  time.  Sir 
Richard  Starton  now  and  again  threw  in  a  few  words 
which  spurred  them  to  fresh  efforts ;  Mr.  Lowther  at- 
tended strictly  to  his  lunch.  James  Whitaker  was  not 
once  troubled  by  an  awkward  question;  it  was  plain 
that,  like  himself,  his  double  had  not  been  garrulous; 
and  all  his  share  in  the  talk  was  now  and  again  a 
growl  or  a  vague  murmur.  His  stiff  arm  excused 
any  awkwardness  in  his  table  manners.  But  all  the 
while  he  listened  with  all  his  ears,  sifting  the  talk, 
storing  up  in  his  excellent  memory  every  piece  of  in- 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  75 

formation  which  might  prove  useful.  The  only  thing 
that  vexed  him  was  that  the  effort  prevented  him  from 
enjoying  his  lunch  to  the  full. 

After  lunch,  as  soon  as  they  had  drunk  their  coffee, 
they  went  back  to  the  drawing-room  and  again  began 
their  auction  bridge.  They  invited  him  to  play,  offer- 
ing to  spare  his  arm  by  dealing  for  him;  but  he  re- 
fused on  the  ground  that  his  head  seemed  quite  hazy 
about  the  game.  However,  he  sat  down  beside  the 
table  and  watched  them  play.  But  he  kept  his  chief 
attention  for  Lady  Cubbington;  she  attracted  him. 
The  game  seemed  to  him  obscure  and  difficult ;  and  he 
resolved  to  read  carefully  a  book  on  it  before  he  at- 
tempted to  play  it. 

When  the  rubber  came  to  an  end  he  growled  in  a 
cheerful  tone:  "I've  forgotten  every  blessed  thing 
about  the  game !" 

The  statement  produced  an  outburst  of  exclama- 
tions of  surprise  and  regret.  Sir  Richard  Starton  and 
Mrs.  Lowther  declared  that  such  a  fine  player  as  he 
had  been  would  soon  pick  it  up  again.  This  compliment 
to  his  skill  at  bridge  was  the  first  good  he  had  heard 
about  his  predecessor. 

Then  they  decided  that  they  must  begin  at  once  to 
teach  it  to  him,  and  as  they  played,  they  did  so.  Their 
explanations  penetrated  his  mind  none  the  more  easily 
in  that  they  all  gave  them  at  the  same  time.  Still,  the 
theory  of  the  game  did  penetrate  it. 

He  watched  them  for  rather  more  than  half  an 
hour,  then  he  arose,  sauntered  about  the  gardens, 
brilliant  in  the  blazing  sunshine,  for  a  while,  and  then 


76  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

went  up  to  his  study.  On  the  bureau  he  found  the  let- 
ter he  had  ordered  Mr.  Brinkman  to  write  to  Wyse. 
He  sat  down,  took  the  late  duke's  check  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  practised  writing  the  signature,  "John 
Lanchester."  At  the  end  of  ten  minutes'  work,  he 
had  covered  two  sheets  of  note-paper ;  then  he  signed 
the  letter  in  a  fashion  which  quite  satisfied  him.  He 
struck  a  match  and  carefully  burned  in  the  empty 
grate  the  two  sheets  of  note-paper  he  had  covered  with 
signatures.  Then  he  rang  for  Jenkinson,  and  gave  in- 
structions that  the  letter  was  to  be  taken  to  Long- 
meadow  Farm  at  once.  It  pleased  him  greatly  to 
have  settled  the  destiny  of  the  Wyses ;  it  was  gratify- 
ing to  his  sense  of  power. 

He  was  in  no  hurry  to  return  to  his  busy  guests ;  as- 
suredly they  were  in  no  need  of  him.  He  unlocked 
the  bottom  drawer  of  the  bureau,  and  took  out  the  let- 
ters which  Lady  Cubbington  had  written  to  the  dead 
duke.  After  her  conversation  at  lunch  he  had  no 
qualms  about  exploring  the  secrets  of  her  heart:  he 
felt  that  it  was  not  the  kind  of  heart  to  hold  sacred 
secrets.  Besides,  had  he  had  any  qualms,  the  neces- 
sity of  securing  his  safety  would  have  made  him  dis- 
regard them.  There  were,  as  he  had  expected,  no 
very  intimate  outpourings  of  the  heart  in  the  letters. 
The  lady  never  grew  fonder  in  her  address  to  his 
predecessor  than  "Dear  John."  Indeed,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  they  had  been  engaged  in  no  more  than  a 
warm  flirtation.  None  the  less,  he  was  Shocked  to 
discover  from  the  letters  that  Lord  Cubbington  was 
alive.  He  seemed,  however,  from  what  his  wife  said 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  77 

about  him,  to  be  about  seventy  years  of  age  and  in  a 
state  of  doddering  idiocy.  In  the  strict  eyes  of  James 
Whitaker  that  did  not  palliate  the  painful  fact  of  his 
existence.  He  was  somewhat  comforted,  however,  to 
find  certain  useful  scraps  of  information  which  he 
stored  carefully  in  his  excellent  memory. 

He  put  away  the  letters  and  returned  gloomily  to 
his  guests.  Their  interest  in  their  game  had  not 
waned  at  all;  and  they  took  very  little  notice  of  him. 
Now  and  again  the  player  who  was  dummy  for  the 
time  being  would  talk  to  him,  with  half  of  his,  or  her, 
mind  on  the  hand  being  played.  James  Whitaker  was 
annoyed;  he  felt  he  was  wasting  one  of  his  splendid 
afternoons  (there  would  only  be  four  or  five  of  them) 
watching  a  tedious  game,  when  he.  should  have  been 
enjoying  his  art  treasures  or  his  beautiful  estate.  It 
was  of  little  comfort  to  him  that,  in  the  intervals  of 
her  strenuous  play,  Lady  Cubbington  looked  at  him 
with  very  kind  eyes. 

After  a  while  he  rose,  sauntered  across  the  terrace, 
down  the  steps  and  out  of  the  gardens  into  the  park. 
Here  he  had  the  English  country  in  all  its  perfection; 
and  it  charmed  him.  Also,  as  he  walked,  his  sense  of 
proprietorship  grew;  and  he  admired  his  fine  oaks, 
his  graceful  deer  and  the  charming  scenes  presented 
by  his  winding,  rippling  trout-stream  in  a  whole- 
hearted fashion.  It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  he 
dragged  himself  away  from  this  pleasure  and  returned 
to  his  guests.  He  found  them  finishing  a  rubber  and 
Jenkinson  and  a  footman  setting  out  tea  on  a  table 
near  them.  At  the  end  of  the  rubber,  they  rose  and 


78  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

came  to  the  table,  relieved  apparently  to  be  able  to 
stretch  themselves  after  their  hard  work.  As  they 
drank  their  tea  they  discussed,  with  every  show  of 
interest,  hands,  calls,  leaves  and  doubles. 

Presently,  however,  Lady  Cubbington  began  to  talk 
to  James  Whitaker,  telling  him  what  she  had  been 
doing,  saying  and  wearing  during  the  last  three  days. 
After  tea,  still  talking,  she  drew  him  insensibly  to  one 
of  the  long  windows,  through  it  and  out  into  the  gar- 
den. When  they  passed  behind  the  screen  of  a  shrub- 
bery she  drew  nearer  to  him,  almost  nestling  against 
him.  He  knew  that  he  ought  to  fall  into  the  part  his 
predecessor  had  played ;  but  the  thought  that  she  was 
a  married  woman  hampered  him.  He  knew  that  it  was 
unwise,  but  he  edged  away  from  her  unhappily. 

She  had  almost  edged  him  off  the  path  when  she 
stopped,  frowning,  and  cried  half  angrily,  half  plain- 
tively :  "You  have  forgotten  me !" 

James  Whitaker  pulled  himself  together  and 
growled : 

"No,  I  haven't." 

"Then  why  do  you  keep  edging  away  from  me? 
Why  don't  you  kiss  me  ?"  cried  Lady  Cubbington,  and 
her  blue  eyes  flashed  at  him. 

"I  was  just  going  to,"  growled  James  Whitaker 
firmly  but  quite  untruthfully. 

With  that  he  put  his  left  arm  around  her  clumsily 
and  administered  a  peck  at  her  left  cheek. 

She  gasped,  shook  herself  free  of  his  arm  and  cried : 
"What  a  kiss!  I  believe  that  beastly  lightning  has 
made  you  forget  me !" 


DUKEDOM  79 

James  Whitaker  could  see  nothing  wrong  with  the 
kiss;  it  was  exactly  the  kind  of  kiss  he  was  wont  to 
administer  to  Millicent  But  he  said  hastily : 

"No,  no :  it  isn't  you  I've  forgotten ;  it's  kissing.  I 
— I  seem  to  have  lost  the  knack  of  it." 

A  sudden  expression  of  suspicion  filled  Lady  Cub- 
bington's  face,  and  she  cried :  "I  know  what  it  is ! 
You've  been  seeing  Emily  again!" 

"I  haven't!"  cried  James  Whitaker,  with  a  warm 
convincing  indignation,  which  came  the  easier  to  him 
since  he  was  speaking  the  truth.  He  did  not  indeed 
know  who  Emily  was. 

"You'd  better  not!"  she  said  with  a  slightly  molli- 
fied air. 

From  the  other  side  of  the  screen  of  shrubs  came 
the  voice  of  Sir  Richard  Starton  calling  her  back  to 
bridge. 

"Kiss  me  properly — be  quick !"  she  cried,  and  turned 
her  charming  face  up  to  him. 

It  went  sorely  against  the  grain,  but  James  Whit- 
aker set  his  teeth,  stooped  and  kissed  her  full  on  the 
lips.  He  felt  that  his  safety  demanded  it.  Also,  ex- 
cept from  the  strictly  moral  point  of  view,  he  did  not 
find  it  at  all  unpleasant. 

She  turned  to  go  back  to  the  house,  saying:  "If 
I  find  you  don't  really  care  for  me,  you  needn't  think 
I'll  marry  you  when — when  I'm  a  widow." 

So  that  was  the  arrangement  which  had  subsisted 
between  her  and  his  predecessor.  James  Whitaker 
followed  her  into  the  drawing-room  with  an  easier 
heart :  it  would  be  easy  to  see  less  and  less  of  her  and 


8o  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

to  let  the  arrangement  lapse.  Yet  he  could  not  help 
feeling  annoyed  by  this  necessity:  he  felt  that  he 
would  have  liked  to  grow  more  intimate  with  her. 
She  had  attracted  his  dead  double ;  it  was  only  natural 
that  she  should  attract  him.  For  the  moment  he  had 
forgotten  that  the  four  or  five  days  he  proposed  to 
remain  at  the  Abbey  were  not  long  enough  for  him  to 
grow  intimate  with  any  one.  His  guests  returned  to 
their  game  with  unabated  earnestness ;  and  he  left  them 
to  it.  It  was  now  cooler  out-of-doors  and  even  more 
enjoyable.  He  strolled  up  and  down  the  terrace,  smok- 
ing peacefully,  enjoying  the  fresh  air,  the  sunlight, 
the  cigar,  the  singing  of  the  birds  and  the  beautiful 
scene  which  stretched  before  his  eyes.  Now  and 
again  he  paused  at  the  window  of  the  blue  drawing- 
room  and  feasted  his  eyes  on  Lady  Cubbington's  face. 
As  he  walked  he  considered  his  short  interview  with 
her.  Undoubtedly  it  was  a  pity  that  he  must  not  grow 
more  intimate  with  her.  Then  suddenly  he  began  to 
think  of  the  pretty  girl  who  had  come  out  of  Long- 
meadow  Farm  that  morning,  and  of  her  strange  glance 
which  had  given  him  the  curious  feeling  that  she  knew 
his  secret.  She  was  undoubtedly  far  prettier,  or 
rather  far  more  beautiful,  than  Lady  Cubbington.  It 
was  strange  that  though  he  had  seen  Lady  Cubbing- 
ton  so  lately,  and  for  so  much  longer  a  time  than  he 
had  seen  the  girl,  the  girl's  face  was  far  clearer  to 
his  mind  than  that  of  Lady  Cubbington.  He  went 
back  to  the  window  and  again  examined  it  carefully. 
At  about  half  past  six  Sir  Richard  Starton  called 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  81 

to  him  that  they  were  going  home;  and  he  went  to 
them.  He  accompanied  them  to  the  front  of  the 
Abbey,  and  down  the  steps  to  the  large  motor-car 
which  awaited  them. 

As  she  was  stepping  into  the  car  Lady  Cubbington 
said,  over  her  shoulder:  "Then  we'll  see  you  to-mor- 
row night,  Duke?" 

"Where  ?"  said  James  Whitaker. 

"Why,  at  the  Grange,  of  course !"  she  cried.  "You're 
dining  with  us;  and  the  Levingtons  and  Crawleighs 
are  coming;  and  we're  going  to  play  baccarat  after 
dinner." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course.  That  beastly  lightning  had 
driven  it  clean  out  of  my  mind,"  said  James  Whitaker 
quickly. 

He  walked  up  the  steps  feeling  content  with  him- 
self. It  was  true  that  his  guests  had  not  given  them- 
selves many  opportunities  of  discovering  that  he  was 
not  the  duke;  but  they  had  not  discovered  it.  That 
was  the  main  thing.  They  were  much  less  likely  to 
discover  it  at  a  later  meeting  than  at  the  first. 

He  went  back  to  the  blue  drawing-room  to  examine 
a  cabinet  full  of  Chelsea  figures.  He  had  not  dared 
to  examine  them  while  his  guests  were  in  the  room; 
it  might  have  been  the  very  last  thing  in  the  world 
his  predecessor  would  have  done.  He  could  now  take 
his  time  over  it  and  enjoy  them  at  his  ease.  He  had 
taken  half  a  dozen  of  the  figures  out  of  the  cabinet, 
and  set  them  on  the  card-table  in  the  full  light  of  the 
window,  and  was  admiring  the  beauty  of  the  paste 


82  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

and  coloring,  when  Jenkinson  entered,  bearing  a  letter 
on  a  silver  salver.  James  Whitaker  took  it,  opened 
it  and  read: 

"Miss  Carton  presents  her  compliments  to  the  Duke 
of  Lanchester,  and  begs  to  say  that  she  wishes  to  see 
him  on  a  private  matter  of  the  most  urgent  importance. 
She  will  be  on  the  park  bridge  at  nine  o'clock." 

The  letter  surprised  him;  it  was  even  something 
of  a  shock.  His  first  natural  thought  was  that  here 
was  another  lady  with  whom  his  apparently  indefat- 
igable predecessor  had  been  on  intimate  terms.  Of 
course  it  must  be  the  daughter  of  the  vicar;  he  re- 
membered that  his  name  was  Carton. 

Then  of  a  sudden  it  flashed  on  him  that  Miss  Carton 
was  the  girl  who  had  come  out  of  Longmeadow  Farm 
that  morning,  and  given  him  that  curious  glance.  She 
did  know  his  secret.  He  was  sure  of  it.  He  swore 
softly  under  his  breath. 

Then  he  said  to  Jenkinson :  "Who  brought  this 
note?" 

"It  was  sent  up  from  the  vicarage,  your  Grace.  And 
the  vicar's  gardener  is  waiting  for  an  answer,"  said 
Jenkinson. 

James  Whitaker  hesitated.  Politeness  demanded 
that  he  should  write  an  answer  to  the  note.  Prudence 
forbade  his  doing  anything  of  the  kind.  Doubtless 
the  girl  would  be  delighted  to  have  a  specimen  of  his 
handwriting. 

Then  he  said  to  Jenkinson:  "Say  that  I  shall  be 
charmed." 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  83 

"Yes,  your  Grace,"  said  Jenkinson;  and  he  departed 
to  take  the  message. 

James  Whitaker  thrust  his  hands  into  his  trousers 
pockets,  and  stared  out  of  the  window,  frowning,  for 
a  couple  of  minutes.  Then  he  returned  to  his  con- 
sideration of  the  Chelsea  figures.  They  occupied  him 
till  it  was  time  to  go  to  dress  for  dinner. 

He  did  not  hurry  over  his  dinner  and  he  drank 
nearly  a  bottle  of  champagne  with  it.  He  was  careful 
to  draw  the  greatest  possible  pleasure  from  them :  they 
might  so  easily,  if  his  suspicion  were  correct,  be  the 
last  he  would  enjoy  at  the  Abbey.  He  was  resolved, 
however,  to  do  his  best  to  out- face  the  young  lady: 
he  was  not  going  to  lose  the  four  or  five  days'  pleasure 
he  had  promised  himself  without  a  fight.  Then  he 
thought  that  possibly  he  was  quite  wrong  in  his  be- 
lief; for  if  the  girl  had  really  discovered  his  secret, 
why  had  she  kept  it  to  herself?  He  did  not  hurry 
over  his  coffee;  and  since  it  might  easily  be  the  last 
he  would  drink  at  the  Abbey,  he  had  another  cup  of  it 
and  two  glasses  of  the  '65  brandy.  He  did  not  think, 
however,  that  he  would  have  to  fly  on  the  instant, 
whatever  she  might  know,  and  therefore  he  did  not 
change  into  a  tweed  suit.  He  would  have  time  to  do 
that  later,  if  he  must  fly. 

He  walked  down  to  the  bridge  in  an  expectancy  al- 
most pleasant.  He  was  eager  to  meet  the  pretty  crea- 
ture. Yet,  deep  as  was  the  impression  her  charming 
face  had  made  on  him,  he  could  scarcely  expect  his 
interview  with  her  to  be  pleasant,  if  his  suspicions 
were  correct.  None  the  less,  he  crossed  the  park  in 


84  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

an  increasing  exaltation  of  spirit.  He  turned  sharply 
to  the  left  to  the  bridge;  and  as  he  stepped  on  to  it, 
he  saw  indeed  the  pretty  girl  who  had  come  out  of 
Longmeadow  Farm  that  morning,  leaning  upon  the 
parapet. 

At  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  she  turned  sharply 
toward  him.  He  walked  up  to  her  briskly,  and  held 
out  his  left  hand  (his  right  hand  was  still  in  the  sling) 
and  said :  "How  do  you  do,  Miss  Carton  ?" 

The  girl  started  back  with  an  air  of  surprise  at  his 
easy  unembarrassed  greeting. 

"Ripping  night:  isn't  it?"  said  James  Whitaker  in 
happy  imitation  of  the  manner  and  talk  of  his  guests 
of  the  afternoon.  "What  was  the  urgent  matter  you 
wanted  to  see  me  about?" 

The  girl  looked  even  more  taken  aback ;  but  she 
said  with  some  firmness :  "You  know  quite  well." 

"Do  I?"  said  James  Whitaker,  with  a  puzzled  air. 
"I'm  sorry;  but  getting  struck  by  that  lightning  yes- 
terday has  muddled  my  head  so  that  I've  quite  forgot- 
ten." 

"That's  just  it — that  being  struck  by  lightning!  I 
was  on  the  top  of  Oak  Tree  Knoll  during  the  thun- 
der-storm yesterday,"  she  cried,  with  a  touch  of  tri- 
umph in  her  tone. 

"Yes?"  said  James  Whitaker,  with  a  good  air  of 
bewilderment. 

"Oh,  it's  no  good  your  pretending  you  don't  under- 
stand !"  she  cried  scornfully.  "I  tell  you  I  was  under 
the  oak  .  .  .  sheltering  in  the  hollow  part  of 
it  ...  on  the  opposite  side  to  you  .  .  ,., 


LWHITAKER'S   DUKEDOM  85 

I  must  have  been  there  when  you  were  struck.  .  .  ., 
Only  I  thought  that  the  lightning  had  struck  the 
tree.  .  .  :.  Then  when  the  storm  was  clearing 
away,  I  came  out  of  it ;  and  as  I  came  round  the  trunk, 
I  saw  two  men,  one  of  them  lying  on  the  ground,  and 
the  other  sitting  up  and  rubbing  his  head. 
It  never  occurred  to  me  that  you'd  been  struck  by 
lightning  ...  I  thought  you'd  been  fighting. 

You  looked  as  if  you'd  been  fighting; 
and  I  was  rather  frightened.  .  .  .  You  might 
have  killed  the  other  man;  he  was  lying  on  his  face. 

So  I  kept  behind  the  trunk,  just  peeping 
with  one  eye ;  and  I  watched  to  see  what  would  hap- 
pen. ...  I  saw  you  lift  up  the  other  man ;  and 
his  face  was  more  dreadful  than  yours;  and  I  was 
more  frightened  than  ever.  .  .  .  And  then  I 
saw  you  look  at  the  letters  in  his  pocket,  and  take  his 
cigarette-case  out,  and  light  a  cigarette. 
And  then  you  walked  about  a  bit  .  .  and  you 

were   frowning  and  scowling,   and  looking  horrible. 

I  didn't  dare  to  come  out.  And  then  you 
picked  him  up,  and  started  to  carry  him  into  the 
bushes.  .  .  .  And  when  you  picked  him  up  I 
recognized  the  duke.  .  .  .  Not  by  his  face,  but 
by  his  clothes.  ...  I  had  seen  him  wearing  them 
when  he  passed  the  vicarage  after  lunch. 
And  you  carried  him  into  the  bushes,  and  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do.  .  .  .1  thought  you  might 
come  back  at  any  moment;  and  if  you  saw  me  and 
knew  that  I  had  seen  you  kill  the  duke,  you  would 
probably  kill  me  as  well — or  try  to.  ...  Even 


86  WHITAKER'S   DUKEDOM 

then  it  didn't  occur  to  me  that  you'd  been  struck 
by  lightning.     ,.,    ...     :.,    And  I  waited  and  waited. 
..     .      .     There's  only  that  one  path  down  from  the 

knoll  to  the   village.     .      .      .     And  then  you   did 

come  back,  carrying  the  duke  again.     .     ...     .     And 

I  saw  you'd  changed  clothes  with  him;  and  it  flashed 

on  me  that  you  were  going  to  pretend  to  be  the  duke. 

Then  you  went   away;   and   this  time   I 

knew  you'd  gone  for  good.     ...     .      .     Then  I  came 

out  from  behind  the  oak;  and  when  I  saw  the  duke's 
face  close  to,  so  scorched  and  twisted,  I  saw  that  he'd 
been  struck  by  lightning."  She  stopped,  shuddering, 
and  added:  "Oh,  it  was  dreadful." 

At  first  James  Whitaker  was  exceedingly  annoyed 
to  find  that  his  fancy  about  the  girl  had  not  been 
absurd.  But  presently  his  annoyance  was  lost  in  the 
pleasure  of  watching  the  quick-changing  expressions 
come  and  go  in  her  animated  face,  so  clear  in  the 
moonlight,  and  of  hearing  her  delightful  voice.  Then 
his  chief  feeling  became  a  strong  curiosity  to  know 
why  she  had  not  gone  straight  to  the  police. 

"Why  didn't  you  go  and  tell  people  this  extraor- 
dinary story  at  once?"  he  said  quickly,  and  in  a  tone 
of  genuine  curiosity,  when  she  came  to  the  end  of 
her  tale. 

She  knitted  her  brow,  and  said  more  slowly :  "Well, 
I  did  start  off  intending  to  tell  Murgatroyd — he's  our 
policeman  here,  you  know.  But  then  it  occurred  to 
me  that  it  would  be  so  interesting  to  see  what  you'd 
do.  And  it  was  so  exciting  to  be  the  only  person  to 
know  about  it  all.  There  didn't  seem  any  hurry  to 


kWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  87 

tell  people.  I  could  always  tell  when  I  wanted  to. 
You  don't  know  how  dull  it  is  in  Little  Lanchester. 
And  it  was  so  amusing  and  exciting." 

"That  wasn't  any  excuse  for  not  going  straight  to 
the  police,"  said  James  Whitaker  in  a  tone  of  cold 
disapproval. 

"I  like  you  saying  that!"  cried  Miss  Carton,  with 
some  heat.  "Besides,  I  tell  you  I  didn't  want  to  go 
to  them.  I  wanted  to  see  what  you'd  do.  I  could 
always  go  to  the  police  when  I  wanted  to.  I  can  now." 

James  Whitaker  laughed  gently  and  said:  "And 
do  you  think  they'd  believe  your  extraordinary  story? 
You  knew  the  duke.  You  can  see  for  yourself  that  I 
am  the  duke." 

"Oh,  the  likeness  is  wonderful,"  she  said  frankly. 
"When  you  came  out  of  those  bushes  carrying  him, 
I  thought  you  were  the  duke,  that  for  some  reason  or 
other  you'd  changed  clothes  with  the  man  and  just 
changed  back  again." 

"Well,  why  not?"  he  said  quickly. 

She  shook  her  head:  "Oh,  no,"  she  said  with  con- 
viction. "When  Doctor  Arbuthnot  told  us  that  you'd 
lost  your  memory,  it  settled  it.  I  was  quite  sure  before 
that  you  weren't  the  duke;  but  that  settled  it.  And 
of  course  when  you  agreed  to  let  Mr.  Wyse  stop  on 
at  Longmeadow  Farm,  that  settled  it  absolutely:  the 
duke  would  never  have  done  anything  half  so  decent." 

"You  don't  know  how  being  struck  by  lightning 
changes  one's  character,"  said  James  Whitaker  quickly. 

"It's  no  good  your  talking  like  that ;  what  the  light- 
ning changed  was  the  duke's  face,"  she  said  firmly. 


88  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"But  it  hasn't  changed  my  face.  You  can  see  for 
yourself,"  said  James  Whitaker. 

"It's  no  good  your  talking  like  that !  I  know  you're 
not  the  duke!"  she  cried. 

James  Whitaker  gazed  at  her  face  thoughtfully, 
with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure. 

"Well,  when  are  you  going  to  tell  your  extraor- 
dinary story  to  the  police  ?"  he  said. 

She  knitted  her  brow  again,  gazing  at  him  earnestly, 
then  she  said :  "I've  changed  my  mind  about  that." 

"You  have?"  he  said  quickly. 

"Yes,  your  letting  Mr.  Wyse  stop  on  at  Long- 
meadow  (the  Wyses  are  our  oldest  friends)  made  a 
lot  of  difference.  If  you  are  going  to  do  things  like 
that,  you'll  be  a  much  better  duke  than  the  duke's 
brother,  who  is  the  heir.  He  is  a  perfectly  hateful 
person — worse  than  his  brother."  Even  in  the  paling 
moonlight  he  saw  that  her  face  darkened  in  an  angry 
flush ;  and  she  frowned  darkly.  "So  I've  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  tell  the  police  about  it." 

"You  have?"  he  said  quickly. 

She  seemed  to  hesitate ;  and  then  she  said  in  a  small 
uncomfortable  voice :  "But  there's  a  condition." 

"A  condition?    What  condition?" 

"On  the  c-c-condition  t-t-that  I'm — I'm  a  d-d-duch- 
ess! You  must  marry  me!"  she  stammered  quickly. 

"Marry  you !"  cried  James  Whitaker,  in  a  tone  of 
the  blankest  astonishment. 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  more  assured  voice.  "I  know 
it  sounds  odd,  but  you  don't  know  what  a  hateful 
place  Little  Lanchester  is.  I'm  not  going  to  be  tied 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  89 

to  it  all  my  life.  I  won't  be.  I  want  to  go  about  the 
world,  to  travel  and  see  things — to  meet  nice  people. 
But  how  am  I  to  do  it?  I'm  not  clever  enough  to  go 
on  the  stage,  which  is  one  way.  And  I  can't  write, 
because  I've  tried.  Of  course,  I  could  be  a  companion 
to  a  lady,  but  what's  the  good  of  that?  I  shouldn't 
enjoy  things  that  way.  But  your  coming  like  this, 
taking  the  duke's  place — why,  it  seems  almost  provi- 
dential!" 

It  seemed  to  James  Whitaker  that  people  at  Little 
Lanchester  had  strange  ideas  about  what  was  provi- 
dential. But  he  saw  that  it  was  still  possible  to  get 
his  four  or  five  days'  uninterrupted  pleasure  at  the 
Abbey :  he  had  only  to  temporize. 

"Well,  you  can't  expect  me  to  accept  such  a  strange 
proposal  at  a  moment's  notice,"  he  said. 

"I'm  not  proposing!"  she  cried  with  some  heat. 
"I'm  telling  you  what  you've  got  to  do." 

"Of  course — of  course,"  said  James  Whitaker  in 
a  soothing  tone.  "But  the  matter  requires  careful 
consideration  all  the  same.  Suppose  after  we  were  mar- 
ried we  found  we  didn't  suit  each  other?  We  should 
only  be  unhappy." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  being  married  seriously.  What 
I  meant  was  just  being  married  in  name,  so  to  speak 
— like  they  do  in  novels.  I  could  be  the  duchess  that 
way." 

It  may  have  been  the  second  glass  of  the  '65  brandy 
on  the  top  of  the  bottle  of  champagne,  or  it  may  have 
been  her  enchanting  face  in  the  moonlight,  but  for 
the  moment  James  Whitaker  quite  forgot  that  he  was 


90  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

already  provided  with  a  wife,  and  his  soul  rose  in 
fierce  revolt  against  the  proposal. 

"I  would  never  agree  to  a  loveless  marriage! 
Never!"  he  cried  sternly. 

"But  love  has  nothing  to  do  with  it!  There's  no 
need  of  anything  of  the  kind.  It's  just  an  arrange- 
ment," she  protested. 

"I  would  never  agree  to  it — never,"  said  James 
Whitaker  with  unabated  firmness.  "You  can  go  to 
the  police  now — this  very  night,  and  tell  them  your 
story  for  what  it  is  worth!" 

"But  it's  absurd!"  she  cried.  "How  am  I  to  fall 
in  love  with  you?  Why,  I  don't  even  know  who  you 
are." 

"Well,  for  the  purpose  of  being  fallen  in  love  with, 
I'm  the  Duke  of  Lanchester,"  said  James  Whitaker 
firmly. 

"But  you  don't  know  how  horrid  the  duke  was," 
she  said. 

"And  you  don't  know  how  different  he  is,"  said 
James  Whitaker.  "But  it's  merely  waste  of  time  talk- 
ing about  it.  I  will  not  consent  to  a  loveless  mar- 
riage." 

He  was  pleased  with  his  firmness  in  the  matter;  he 
felt  that  he  was  defending  a  great  principle;  and  a 
warm  glow  of  virtue  suffused  him  very  pleasantly. 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  the  most  acute 
perplexity  and  annoyance,  and  cried :  "What's  the 
use  of  talking  like  that  ?  People  can't  fall  in  love  just 
because  it's  necessary!" 


iWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  91 

A  happy  thought  flashed  into  the  mind  of  James 
Whitaker :  it  was  plain  that  he  must  temporize  to  keep 
the  girl  silent  during  the  four  or  five  days  he  was 
staying  at  the  Abbey,  but  why  should  he  not,  by  that 
very  process  of  temporizing,  render  those  four  or  five 
days  more  pleasant?  Of  course  he  was  a  married 
man,  but  the  situation  was  forced  on  him.  He  said 
gravely : 

"My  dear  Elizabeth,  a  great  deal  can  be  done  by 
trying." 

"How  dare  you  call  me  Elizabeth !"  she  cried  angrily. 

"People — people  who  are  engaged  to  be  married 
call  each  other  by  their  Christian  names,"  said  James 
Whitaker  with  cold  firmness. 

"I  believe  you  are  the  duke,  after  all:  you're  so 
horrid!" 

"I  told  you  I  was  the  duke,"  said  James  Whitaker. 

"You  know  you're  not  the  duke,"  she  said  indig- 
nantly. 

James  Whitaker  looked  at  her  sternly  and  said  again 
gravely :  "We're  getting  away  from  the  point.  We're 
discussing  our  being  married,  and  we've  reached  the 
conclusion  that  a  loveless  marriage  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion." 

"I  haven't !"  she  cried. 

"But  /  have,"  said  James  Whitaker,  with  a  gentle 
wave  of  his  hand.  "And  the  question  now  is,  how 
are  we  going  to  make  marriage  possible.  You're 
really  keen  on  being  a  duchess?" 

She  hesitated,  staring  at  him  with  the  most  keenly 


92'  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

perplexed  eyes;  then  she  cried:  "I  don't  know — 
you're — you're  so  different.  But — but — I  do.  I  do 
want  to  be  a  duchess !" 

"Well,  then  we  have  to  devote  our  time  to  acquir- 
ing sufficient  affection  for  each  other  to  render  the 
marriage  possible,"  he  said  earnestly,  almost  solemnly. 
"We  ought  at  any  rate  to  give  ourselves  the  chance. 
It's  all  a  matter  of  seeing  each  other,  and  giving  our- 
selves a  chance  to  like  each  other,  you  know." 

She  gazed  at  him,  frowning  thoughtfully;  then  she 
said :  "It's  all  very  well,  but  I  don't  know  who  you 
are.  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea.  You  might  be 
anybody." 

"Well,  if  you  mean  to  be  the  Duchess  of  Lanchester 
the  sooner  you  make  up  your  mind  that  I'm  the  Duke 
of  Lanchester  the  better.  And  if  you  notice  anything 
in  me  that  doesn't  fit  in  with  that  position,  you  can 
point  it  out  to  me,  and  I'll  try  to  mend  it.  Come, 
that's  a  fair  offer." 

"It  wasn't  what  I  meant  at  all,"  she  said  in  a  very 
doubtful  voice.  "I  didn't  mean  to  have  anything  of 
this  kind  in  it.  But  perhaps  there  wouldn't  be  any 
harm  in  trying — though  I  don't  think  there's  the 
slightest  chance  of  my  ever  coming  to  care  for  you." 

"You  can't  tell  till  you've  tried.  At  any  rate,  it's 
the  sensible  thing  to  do.  But  if  you  don't  care  to  try 
it,  you  can  go  straight  to  the  police  and  tell  them  that 
I'm  not  the  Duke  of  Lanchester." 

"No;  I  don't  want  to  do  that — not  now,  anyway," 
she  said  slowly.  "And  after  all,  though  it's  quite  im- 
possible for  me  to  come  to  like  you  really  (you  have 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  93 

such  a  hard  and  savage  face),  there's  no  harm  in 
trying  it." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  James  Whitaker  cheerfully. 
"Let's  go  for  a  stroll  down  the  river  bank." 

She  hesitated ;  then  she  fell  into  step  with  him,  and 
they  started.  He  was  pleased  with  the  result  of  the 
negotiations :  he  felt  that,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned, 
he  was  safe  for  the  next  four  or  five  days. 

She  was  much  less  pleased  with  the  result.  She  had 
expected  him  to  accept  her  condition;  but  she  was 
accepting  his. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  one  thing  to  be  walking  with  a  charming  and 
attractive  girl,  and  another  to  talk  to  her.  James 
Whitaker  would  have  liked  to  point  out  to  her  that 
she  had  been,  and  was,  trying  to  blackmail  him,  but 
it  seemed  unlikely  to  make  for  pleasantness.  He 
knew  but  little  about  women,  but  he  had  learned  from 
his  association  with  Millicent  that  a  woman  must  al- 
ways be  in  the  right.  He  cudgeled  his  brains  for  a 
better  opening,  but  could  find  none.  His  failure  an- 
noyed him,  for  he  felt  that  his  predecessor,  judging 
from  the  drawerful  of  letters  in  his  study,  could 
never  have  been  at  a  loss  for  a  subject  of  conver- 
sation with  a  woman.  Miss  Carton  was  looking 
straight  before  her,  her  brow  knitted  in  a  thoughtful 
frown.  She  seemed  to  have  no  desire  at  the  moment 
to  talk,  and  looked  quite  unlikely  to  help  him. 

At  last  he  said :  "Do  you  mind  my  smoking  ?'' 

"No,"  she  said. 

He  lighted  a  cigar,  and  no  longer  felt  any  imperative 
need  to  talk  to  her.  It  was  enough  to  look  at  her 
face  in  the  moonlight  and  enjoy  the  cigar.  He  was 
quite  sure  that  he  had  never  seen  such  a  beautiful  face; 
her  clearly,  delicately  cut  profile  with  the  straight 
nose,  not  too  long,  and  the  rather  full  lips,  was  as 
charming  as  her  full  face. 

94 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  95 

Her  face,  or  the  cigar,  stimulated  him,  for  presently 
he  said :  "This  is  a  glorious  night,  and  a  glorious 
place  to  be  in." 

"It  is  a  pretty  place,"  she  said  somewhat  grudg- 
ingly. 

"You  speak  as  if  you  thought  it  wasn't,"  said  James 
Whitaker. 

"I've  grown  tired  of  it.  You  see  I've  lived  here  all 
my  life.  It's  beautiful  enough  in  summer,  but  in 
winter  it's  dreadful.  There's  no  one  to  talk  to,  and 
no  books  to  read,  or  anything." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  a  friend  of  Miss  Wyse?" 

"Yes ;  there  are  just  two  of  us ;  there's  not  another 
soul." 

James  Whitaker  pondered  the  statement,  then  he 
said: 

"Hasn't  she  got  any  brothers?" 

"No,  she  hasn't.  And  if  she  had,  they  wouldn't  be 
any  use.  They'd  always  be  hard  at  work  on  the  farm. 
It  would  be  all  right  if  there  were  any  tennis  or  hockey, 
like  there  are  in  other  places ;  but  there  isn't,  and  the 
consequence  is  I'm  a  perfect  duffer  at  both." 

Her  impatient  eyes  flashed  and  sparkled  on  him 
as  she  uttered  her  complaint. 

"It  is  very  hard  lines  being  shut  into  a  narrow 
groove,"  said  James  Whitaker  with  real  fellow  feel- 
ing. 

"Oh,  it  is !"  she  cried. 

He  looked  at  her  earnestly  and  said :  "But  I  should 
have  thought  it  impossible  for  it  to  happen  to  you." 

"Why  not?" 


96  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"You're  so  extraordinarily  good-looking." 

She  stopped  short  and  faced  him,  frowning.  "You've 
no  business  to  talk  to  me  like  that !"  she  said  sharply. 

"Well,  I  think  if  you  want  to  get  to  know  a  worn — 
any  one,  it's  best  to  speak  out  exactly  what  you  think. 
But  of  course  I  don't  know  much  about  that  kind  of 
thing." 

"There!  Now  you  have  admitted  that  you're  not 
the  duke!  He  had  lots  of  experience.  Everybody 
said  so,"  she  cried  in  a  tone  of  triumph. 

James  Whitaker  saw  that  he  had  made  a  slip;  but 
in  his  pleasant  condition  of  stimulated  well-being, 
though  his  invention  was  dull,  his  reason  was  working 
with  uncommon  smoothness. 

"Ah,  of  course  people  say  that,"  he  said  carelessly. 
"But  they  don't  know  the  facts  of  the  case.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I'm  not  any  good  at  love-making — as 
you'll  find  out." 

She  considered  his  face  curiously  for  a  few  sec- 
onds, then  she  said:  "I  suppose  you  mean  they  run 
after  you  because  you're  duke." 

"I  never  said  they  did  run  after  me!  I  shouldn't 
think  of  saying  such  a  thing!"  cried  James  Whitaker 
indignantly. 

"You  implied  it.  And  anyway,  that  must  be  it," 
she  said  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

"Why  must  it  be  it?"  said  James  Whitaker,  even 
more  indignantly,  for  it  was  a  somewhat  ruffling  state- 
ment. 

"Well — you're — you're  not  good-looking,  are  you?" 
she  said  in  a  somewhat  apologetic  tone. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  97 

"Good-looking!  What  should  I  be  good-looking 
for?"  cried  James  Whitaker  in  a  tone  of  deep  dis- 
gust. 

"Oh,  well,  everybody  likes  to  be  good-looking,"  she 
said  mildly. 

"Men  don't  bother  about  that  kind  of  thing,"  he 
said  firmly.  "Why  should  they?  It's  so  unnecessary 
to  be  an  Apollo  Belvedere." 

"There!  That's  the  kind  of  thing  that  annoys  me 
so,"  she  said,  once  more  complaining.  "You  know 
what  you  mean  when  you  talk  of  the  Apollo  Belvedere. 
But  I've  never  seen  it,  and  I  never  shall." 

"No  more — "  said  James  Whitaker ;  and  he  stopped 
short. 

He  had  been  on  the  point  of  saying  "No  more  have 
I" ;  but  the  thought  that  the  duke  might  very  well  have 
seen  it  checked  him. 

He  changed  the  subject  abruptly,  saying :  "My  looks 
can't  matter  at  all.  Let's  talk  about  something  more 
interesting.  Look  at  the  moonlight  on  the  stream 
there.  I  can't  understand  your  getting  tired  of  a 
beautiful  place  like  this." 

"I'm  not  tired  of  it — not  exactly — in  the  summer, 
that  is,"  she  said  slowly.  "But  I  want  to  see  the  other 
places  too — London — I  want  to  stay  there — a  long- 
time— with  lots  of  money  to  go  everywhere  and  see 
everything.  The  only  place  I  ever  go  to  is  to  Shap, 
in  Westmoreland — where  my  aunts  live — and  it's 
worse  than  this." 

"Oh,  if  you  want  to  live  in  town !"  he  said  contemp- 
tuously, thinking  of  Hammersmith. 


98  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"But  I  don't !  I  like  the  country !  But  I  don't  want 
to  be  buried  in  it  all  my  life!"  she  cried  with  some 
heat. 

She  went  on  to  enlarge  upon  the  emptiness  of  her 
life  (at  the  assembly  rooms  at  Lanchester)  ;  how  she 
had  never  been  to  a  dance;  how  she  had  never  met 
a  single  interesting  person,  not  an  actor,  or  a  writer, 
or  an  explorer,  or  a  great  soldier,  or  a  leading  poli- 
tician. 

James  Whitaker  was  very  sympathetic  with  her. 
Indeed,  he  felt  very  sympathetic  with  her;  as  she 
talked  he  realized  more  clearly  than  ever  how  his 
own  life  had  been  cramped. 

He  was  indeed  enjoying  himself  greatly.  The 
charm  of  the  beautiful  moonlit  night  in  the  soothing 
and  fragrant  air,  so  refreshing  to  his  urban  spirit,  was 
trebled  for  him  by  her  charming  face,  her  delightful, 
liquid  voice,  and  her  beautiful,  appealing  eyes.  He 
was  indeed  so  sympathetic  to  her  appeal  that  she  felt 
that  she  was  really  growing  acquainted  with  him ;  and 
she  found  the  process  unexpectedly  pleasant.  She 
had  never  before  enjoyed  the  sympathy  of  an  intelli- 
gent man,  and  she  found  it  indeed  comforting  and 
stimulating.  Indeed,  the  time  passed  so  quickly  that 
she  was  amazed  to  hear  the  clock  strike  eleven. 

"Good  gracious!"  she  cried.  "My  father  will  be 
thinking  that  something  dreadful  has  happened  to 
me !  I  shall  have  to  run  home." 

"What  could  happen  to  you  here?"  said  James 
,  Whitaker. 


WHITAKER'S   DUKEDOM  99 

"Nothing.  That's  why  I'm  so  sick  of  the  place," 
she  said  quickly. 

Fortunately  they  had  been  wandering  in  a  circle, 
and  were  very  near  the  bridge  from  which  they  had 
started,  the  nearest  point  of  the  park  to  the  village. 
He  went  over  it  with  her  and  along  the  bank  of  the 
stream  to  the  end  of  the  home  wood. 

It  seemed  to  him  not  only  needful  to  secure  her 
silence,  but  also  entirely  desirable  that  he  should  enjoy 
more  of  her  society;  and  he  proposed  that  she  should 
meet  him  at  the  bridge  at  eleven  the  next  morning. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't !"  she  said  in  a  hesitating  tone.  "It 
wouldn't  do  at  all.  Think  how  people  would  talk  if 
they  knew!" 

"That's  all  very  well,  but  we've  got  to  talk.  There 
are  ever  so  many  things  we've  got  to  discuss.  We 
can't  be  married  without  doing  it.  Besides,  how  are 
we  to  give  ourselves  any  chance  of  being  married  at 
all  unless  we  see  plenty  of  each  other?" 

"There  wouldn't  be  any  need  for  that — it  wouldn't 
matter  at  all — if  you'd  only  be  married  the  way  I 
want,"  she  said  in  a  somewhat  aggrieved  tone. 

"But  I  won't — I  shouldn't  dream  of  it !  No  loveless 
marriages  for  me,  thank  you,"  he  said  firmly.  "And 
if  we're  really  going  to  try  to  work  it,  what  does  it 
matter  what  people  say?  You'll  really  have  to  come." 

They  had  come  to  the  gate  opening  from  the  home 
wood  into  the  lane  to  the  village,  and  she  stood  still, 
hesitating.  She  wanted  to  come;  their  talk  had  been 
pleasant;  she  had  never  before  met  any  one  to  whom 


IOO 

she  could  unburden  herself  so  freely.  At  last  she 
said  : 

"Very  well,  I'll  come — just  for  once." 

"Good,"  he  said,  and  made  to  follow  her  through 
the  gate. 

"No,  you  mustn't  come  any  farther.  It  wouldn't 
be  safe,"  she  said. 

They  shook  hands  with  considerable  warmth,  seeing 
that  they  were  but  two  hours  acquainted;  and  he 
watched  her  until  she  disappeared  round  a  corner 
of  the  lane. 

She  reached  home  not  ill  satisfied  by  the  meeting. 
She  was  not  getting  her  way  wholly,  but  it  was  not 
improbable  that  she  would  get  what  she  chiefly  wanted. 
But  James  Whitaker  had  proved  far  more  satisfactory 
than  she  had  expected.  She  had  been  disposed,  whether 
he  were  the  duke  or  merely  an  impersonator  of  the 
duke,  to  regard  him  as  a  villain,  but  she  had  found 
him  a  quiet  sympathetic  person,  even  high  principled 
in  the  matter  of  loveless  marriages.  She  had  even 
modified  her  belief  in  his  ugliness.  She  had  always 
regarded  the  Duke  of  Lanchester  as  a  very  ugly  man ; 
the  rugged  face  of  his  double  had  lost  for  her  much 
of  its  ugliness.  Certainly,  when  you  saw  them  close, 
he  had  beautiful  eyes. 

She  wished  she  were  quite  sure  whether  he  were 
the  duke  or  some  one  impersonating  the  duke.     Of 
course,  if  he  were  the  duke,  he  must  just  be  playing 
with  her.      .      .      .     But  no:  he  certainly  was  not 

playing  with   her.     .      .     ...     Her  instinct  told   her 

that. 


tWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOML  101 

James  Whitaker  walked  back  to  the  Abbey  in  fine 
elation.  He  had  not  spent  so  pleasant  an  evening  in 
years.  It  was,  of  course,  awkward  that  his  secret  was 
known  to  an  inexperienced  girl;  she  might  carelessly 
let  it  slip  out.  But  he  had  only  to  keep  her  silent  for 
a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  and  she  would  be  unable 
to  persuade  any  one  of  the  truth  of  her  story.  The 
truth,  that  she  had  kept  silent  with  the  intention  of 
marrying  him,  would  be  quite  incredible  to  the  inhab- 
itants of  Little  Lanchester. 

He  lay  awake  for  a  while  thinking  of  her.  He  had 
a  rare  power  of  visualization,  and  he  called  up  her 
charming  image  and  kept  it  before  his  mind  with  the 
greatest  pleasure.  Once  or  twice  a  doubt  assailed  him 
whether  a  man  of  his  domesticated  nature  ought  to 
find  such  a  pleasure  in  doing  this. 

He  awoke  pleasantly  next  morning  to  the  prospect 
of  a  pleasant  idle  day.  There  would  be  nothing  to 
do  but  enjoy  himself  till  the  evening,  when  he  was 
to  dine  and  play  baccarat  at  the  Grange.  He  might, 
or  might  not  play  it.  He  might  find  it  advisable  to 
join  in  it  in  order  to  play  his  part  of  duke  properly. 
It  was  a  rather  tiresome  affair;  it  would  be  far  more 
pleasant  to  stroll  by  the  stream  in  the  park  with  Eliza- 
beth. But  he  was  curious  to  see  more  of  these  great 
folk. 

He  enjoyed  his  breakfast  thoroughly,  and  the  fact 
that  he  was  going  to  spend  the  morning  with  Eliza- 
beth Carton  increased  his  enjoyment  of  it.  It  is 
true  that  his  conscience  reminded  him  twice  that  a 
married  man  had  no  right  to  spend  a  pleasant  morning 


102  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

with  a  pretty  girl  in  a  park;  but  he  was  very  short 
with  it,  assuring  himself  that  necessity  knows  no  law, 
and  that,  above  all  things,  she  must  be  kept  silent. 
With  equal  firmness  he  repressed  his  tendency  to  con- 
gratulate himself  on  his  compulsion. 

He  read  in  two  newspapers,  with  very  little  interest, 
the  accounts  of  his  being  struck  by  lightning. 

He  walked  down  to  the  bridge  in  some  doubt,  pain- 
ful doubt,  whether  after  all  Miss  Carton  would  come 
to  meet  him;  and  in  some  doubt  herself,  she  kept  him 
waiting  ten  minutes.  But  at  ten  minutes  past  eleven 
she  came,  looking  very  fresh  and  delightful  and  charm- 
ing in  a  light  gray  summer  frock,  which  gave  her 
beautiful  color  its  full  value. 

They  did  not  walk  very  far,  for  she  had  no  desire 
whatever  to  be  seen  in  the  compromising  company  of 
the  duke.  About  fifty  yards  down  the  stream  she 
turned  aside  into  a  little  nook,  embowered  in  hazel- 
bushes,  in  its  bank,  and  sat  down.  James  Whitaker 
found  it  very  pleasant  to  lie  back  against  the  bank, 
smoking  an  excellent  cigar,  and  watch  her  changing 
face  and  listen  to  her  delightful  voice.  He  had  little 
desire  to  talk,  and  there  was  little  need  for  him  to  do 
so,  since  the  happy  subject  on  which  she  was  enlarging 
was  what  she  would  do  when  she  was  duchess.  It 
seemed  as  if,  in  the  course  of  the  night,  the  difficulty 
created  by  his  objection  to  a  loveless  marriage  had 
been  removed,  for  she  talked  of  the  things  she  pro- 
posed to  do  almost  as  if  it  were  already  settled  that 
she  would  be  in  the  position  to  do  them. 

He  helped  her  now  and  again  with  a  suggestion. 


AVHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  103 

Only  once  during  the  morning  did  he  strike  a  jar- 
ring note ;  and  she  was  really  to  blame  for  it,  since  she 
suggested  once  more  that  he  was  not  the  duke. 

"Well,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "if  I  were  the  im- 
personator you  say  I  am,  we  should  certainly  be  well- 
matched,  shouldn't  we  ?  An  impersonator  and  a  black- 
mailer." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  cried;  and  her  eyes? 
flashed.  "How  dare  you  say  such  a  thing?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  genuine  astonishment,  and  said : 
"But  of  course  you're  a  blackmailer.  You're  black- 
mailing me  into  marrying  you." 

"It  isn't  true!"  she  cried  with  the  liveliest  indig- 
nation. "Nothing  would  induce  me  to  marry  you,  if 
I  didn't  want  to  be  duchess!" 

"Yes,  but  that's  just  it!"  he  cried.  "You  tried  to 
obtain  the  position  and  the  income  of  a  duchess  by; 
threatening  me;  and  that  is  blackmailing." 

"I  think  it's  perfectly  detestable  of  you  to  say  such 
a  thing!"  she  cried,  yet  more  indignantly.  "You 
know  I  can't  go  on  being  buried  alive  in  this  horrid 
little  village.  Besides,  you  wouldn't  agree  to  a  love- 
less marriage — you  said  you  wouldn't — and  if  we  did 
— I  mean,  if  it  isn't  a  loveless  marriage — I'm  not 
forcing  you  to  marry  me." 

She  stopped  short  with  a  fine  flush  on  her  face. 

"No,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  amiably.  "But  I  tell 
you  what  you  are  doing;  you're  forcing  me  to  fall  in 
love  with  you." 

"I'm  not!"  she  cried.  "You  insisted  on  doing  it 
yourself — at  least,  you  insisted  on  trying." 


104  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"And  I'm  inclined  to  think  that  I  shall  succeed,"  he 
said  cheerfully. 

"Well,  you  needn't  think  that  I  shall  fall — I  mean 
• — I  mean  it  will  be  quite  a  one-sided  affair  if  you  go 
on  saying  detestable  things  like  that!" 

"Like  what?" 

"About  blackmailing." 

"Oh,  it  only  just  occurred  to  me.  It  isn't  worth 
bothering  about,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  indifference. 

"But  you've  no  business  to  say  such  things,"  she 
said  in  a  less  violent  tone. 

"Perhaps  I  oughtn't,"  he  said  carelessly.  "Well, 
we  won't  discuss  it  any  more." 

They  resumed  the  more  peaceful  discussion  of  what 
she  would  do  when  she  was  duchess.  Either  it  was 
the  stimulation  of  the  country  air,  or  it  was  the  stimu- 
lation of  her  beauty,  but  suddenly  he  found  himself 
assuring  her  with  the  most  impressive  emphasis  that 
she  would  be  the  most  charming  duchess  in  England. 
He  felt  at  once  that  it  was  no  business  of  a  married 
man  to  be  offering  these  tributes  to  a  girl's  beauty, 
but  it  seemed  very  natural.  He  excused  himself  on 
the  ground  that  it  was  necessary  to  keep  her  in  good 
temper,  and  that  after  all  it  did  not  really  matter, 
since  he  would  only  be  seeing  her  for  another  three  or 
four  days. 

When  she  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  pleasant  things 
she  was  going  to  do  when  she  was  a  duchess,  she 
turned  her  talk  to  the  improvements  she  was  going 
to  make  on  the  estate,  and  presently  she  was  reproach- 
ing him  severely  for  the  cramped  and  unsanitary  cot- 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  105 

tages  in  which  the  laborers  who  worked  on  the  home 
farm  lived.  As  the  parson's  daughter  she  had  had 
full  opportunity  of  learning  their  condition. 

Her  revelations  surprised  James  Whitaker,  but  he 
was  careful  to  conceal  that  surprise.  He  rather  tried 
to  win  more  favor  by  professing  his  readiness  to  ac- 
cept her  suggestions  of  reform,  and  had  presently 
pledged  himself  to  an  exhaustive  scheme  of  housing 
and  sanitation.  She  was  very  pleased  with  his  readi- 
ness, and  with  his  assurance  that  he  would  set  Mr. 
Brinkman  to  work  on  the  scheme  that  very  afternoon. 
She  wrote  down  for  him  the  names  of  the  three 
hamlets,  besides  Little  Lanchester  itself,  which  needed 
rebuilding — Wodden,  Chigleigh  and  Gant. 

He  thanked  her  and  put  the  piece  of  paper  with  their 
names  on  it  into  his  pocket. 

Then  she  said :  "I  wonder  when  they're  going  to 
find  the  duke's  body." 

"Whose  body?"  said  James  Whitaker  with  well- 
feigned  surprise. 

"It's  dreadful  to  think  of  its  lying  there,"  she 
said,  taking  no  notice  of  his  question.  "But  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  about  it." 

"It's  a  little  late  for  you  to  do  anything.     They'll 
find  it  sooner  or  later,"  he  said  somewhat  callously. 
"Oh,  you  are  unfeeling,"  she  said  reproachfully. 
"No,  I'm  not  really,"  he  said.     "But  it  can't  make 
any  real  difference  to  a  dead  man  whether  he's  in  a 
wood  or  in  his  grave." 

"But  why  don't  you  tell  them  about  it  ?"  she  said. 
"You  forget  that  my  head's  all  muddled  about  the 


io6  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

matter.  I  can't  take  them  to  this  dead  man  you  tell 
me  about.  I  don't  know  the  way,"  he  said,  with  a 
good  show  if  impatience. 

"I  don't  quite  know  what's  to  be  done,"  she  said, 
knitting  her  brow. 

"It's  best  to  leave  it  alone,  I  should  think.  They're 
bound  to  find  him  in  a  day  or  two,"  he  said  quite 
carelessly. 

She  was  silent  for  a  minute,  pondering;  then  she 
said :  "Well,  it's  just  as  well  I  saw  the  duke's  walking- 
stick  and  brought  it  away.  It  was  lying  a  few  yards 
from  his  body." 

James  Whitaker  looked  at  her  somewhat  blankly 
and  thought  it  was  indeed  just  as  well,  but  he  did  not 
say  so.  He  said :  "My  walking-stick,  you  mean." 

"No;  I  don't,"  she  said  firmly.  "You  can't  even 
tell  me  what  it's  like." 

It  was  a  shrewd  thrust,  but  he  was  not  unready ;  he 
said:  "I  could  if  I  could  remember  what  stick  I  was 
carrying.  But  I  can  only  remember  those  I  saw  in  the 
stand  this  morning." 

She  looked  at  hirn  with  a  very  doubtful,  wondering 
air. 

Then  she  rose  and  said  that  she  must  be  going.  He 
rose  with  considerable  reluctance,  and  they  took  their 
way  back  to  the  bridge.  When  they  came  to  it  they 
stopped,  and  he  said: 

"About  this  afternoon :  how  would  it  be  if  you  were 
to  come  and  spend  it  with  me  at  the  Abbey?  There 
are  lots  of  beautiful  things  at  the  Abbey  for  you  to 
see.  Besides,  there's  the  place  itself." 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  107 

"Think  how  people  would  talk,"  she  said;  but  her 
face  had  brightened  at  the  suggestion. 

"I  don't  see  how  that's  to  be  helped,"  he  said  eagerly. 
"We  certainly  can't  grow  better  acquainted  without 
people  seeing  us  together;  and  we've  evidently  got  to 
get  better  acquainted." 

"Oh,  well ;  if  you  look  at  it  like  that,  I  suppose  we 
must  chance  their  talking,"  she  said  gravely. 

"All  the  same  there's  no  need  for  any  one  to  know 
how  long  you're  at  the  Abbey,"  he  said  quickly.  "We'll 
meet  here  and  go  through  the  shrubberies  and  into  the 
blue  drawing-room.  None  of  the  servants  ever  seem 
to  be  in  the  most  interesting  part  of  the  house.  You 
might  come  and  spend  a  couple  of  hours  and  go  away 
without  being  seen  by  one  of  them,  with  a  little  luck. 
But,  of  course,  you  will  have  tea  with  me,  and  stay  for 
a  while  after  it." 

"Oh,  I  should  like  to !"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  shone. 
Then  she  added  doubtfully :  "But  I'm  not  at  all  sure 
that  I  ought  to." 

"Well,  we'll  try  it  and  see  what  happens,"  he  said 
cheerfully.  "I'll  meet  you  here  at  three." 


CHAPTER  VII 

ATER  lunch  James  Whitaker  betook  himself  at 
once  to  the  steward's  office,  and  as  he  entered  it 
Mr.  Brinkman  rose,  smiling  a  broad  welcome,  rubbing 
his  hands  together,  and  greeted  him  in  an  unpleasant, 
obsequious  tone. 

James  Whitaker  greeted  him  in  the  husky  growl 
he  was  affecting,  and  said :  "I've  decided  to  rebuild 
Little  Lanchester,  Wodden,  Chigleigh  and  Gant,  and 
fit  them  out  with  the  latest  things  in  the  way  of  drains. 
I'm  going  to  house  all  the  laborers  on  the  estate  prop- 
erly." 

"What?"  cried  Mr.  Brinkman.  The  smile  died  on 
his  face,  and  it  filled  with  amazement  and  horror. 
"Your  Grace  is  going  to  pamper  the  laborers?" 

"No,  I'm  only  going  to  house  them  like  human 
beings,"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"But  the  county,  your  Grace — the  county  won't 
stand  it.  You  couldn't  do  anything  more  certain  to 
destroy  your  influence  and  make  you  thoroughly  un- 
popular. It  will  offend  all  your  friends  and  your  ten- 
ants and  your  friends'  tenants.  It  will  offend  every- 
body." 

"They  can  go  to  the  devil,"  said  James  Whitaker 
carelessly. 

1 08 


LWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  109 

"Yes,  of  course  your  Grace  says  that.  Your  Grace 
always  says  that.  But  this  is  such  a  very  different 
thing  from  anything  else  you've  ever  done ;  and  people 
won't  stand  it.  I  assure  your  Grace  they  won't," 
pleaded  Mr.  Brinkman  in  harrowed  tones. 

"If  they  don't  like  it,  they  can  lump  it,"  growled 
James  Whitaker. 

It  was  something  of  a  satisfaction  to  him  to  know 
that  his  benefactions  would  be  a  source  of  annoyance 
to  his  successor.  He  envied  and  disliked  his  successor, 
even  without  knowing  who  he  might  be.  It  was  a 
pleasure  to  make  his  path  rough  for  him. 

"B-b-but  where's  the  money  to  come  from?"  said 
Mr.  Brinkman. 

"Out  of  the  rents  of  course,"  said  James  Whitaker 
readily. 

"But  your  Grace  is  spending  every  penny  of  your 
income  from  this  estate  as  it  is,"  cried  Mr.  Brinkman. 
"Has  your  Grace  any  idea  how  much  it  will  cost  to 
rebuild  all  these  villages  ?" 

"Not  the  slightest,"  said  James  Whitaker  in  a  tone 
that  conveyed  exactly  the  indifference  he  felt. 

The  expression  of  horror  deepened  on  Mr.  Brink- 
man's  face.  It  shone  with  the  sweat  of  anguish.  His 
lips  moved  as  if  he  were  calculating. 

"Not  a  penny  less  than  a  million  one  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars,  more  than  two  years'  income  from  the 
Abbey  estate,"  he  moaned. 

"I've  got  other  estates,"  said  James  Whitaker  at  a 
venture.  "I  can  live  on  the  income  from  them." 

"But  you  encumber  this  estate  for  years,  your  Grace. 


no  .WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

The  Abbey  //or  to  be  kept  up  out  of  the  rents  from  it," 
wailed  Mr.  Brinkman.  "It  will  take  five  years  to  pay 
for  these  improvements  if  your  Grace  doesn't  touch  a 
penny  of  the  rents  for  your  personal  expenses." 

"That's  all  right.  Get  the  best  architect  from  Lan- 
chester  here  at  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  to  go  round  the 
villages  with  me,"  said  James  Whitaker. 

"Very  well,  your  Grace — very  well.  But  you  can't 
improve  the  condition  of  these  people.  It's  been  tried ; 
and  it  can't  be  done.  It's  been  proved  again  and  again. 
It's  a  waste  of  money — such  a  dreadful  waste  of 
money!"  moaned  Mr.  Brinkman. 

"And  write  at  once  to  a  good  firm  of  builders  so 
that  they  can  let  me  have  their  estimates  as  soon  as  the 
architect's  plans  are  ready.  I  want  the  thing  properly 
under  way  in  three  days  from  now." 

"In  three  days !  A  scheme  like  this !  But  it's  impos- 
sible, your  Grace!  Impossible!"  Mr.  Brinkman  al- 
most howled. 

James  Whitaker  scowled  blackly  at  him,  and  growled 
savagely :  "You're  here  to  see  that  it's  done.  Do  it !" 

Mr.  Brinkman  gasped :  "I  don't  know  what's  come 
to  your  Grace,"  he  wailed.  "You  used  to  agree  that  it 
was  nonsense  to  try  to  do  anything  for  the  agricul- 
tural laborer — just  silly  Radical  talk." 

"I've  changed  my  mind,"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"It's  a  change  indeed.  Your  Grace  is  a  changed 
man — another  person  altogether — since  that  lightning- 
stroke,"  wailed  Mr.  Brinkman. 

"You  get  that  architect  and  builders,"  growled  James 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  in 

Whitaker,  turning  on  his  heel ;  and  he  went  out  of  the 
room  and  shut  the  door  firmly  behind  him. 

The  thought  that  he  was  pledging  his  detested  suc- 
cessor to  improvements  that  would  probably  be  ex- 
ceedingly distasteful  to  him  made  him  smile  most  un- 
amiably.  He  would  have  the  contracts  signed  before 
he  retired  from  the  Abbey.  Then  the  thought  of  his 
successor's  annoyance  inspired  into  him  a  desire  to 
know  who  that  successor  might  be ;  and  he  went  into 
the  library.  On  the  desk  at  which  the  late  duke's  sec- 
retaries had  been  wont  to  work  stood  a  Debrett's 
Peerage;  its  red  and  gold  had  caught  his  eye  during 
his  earlier  visit  of  exploration.  He  sat  down  at  the 
desk,  opened  the  book  and  learned  in  half  a  minute 
that  the  only  near  kin  the  duke  had  had  was  one 
brother,  Lord  Edward  Beddard.  The  next  nearest 
was  a  female  second  cousin.  James  Whitaker  per- 
ceived that  the  Lanchester  family  must  be  worn  out 
and  coming  to  its  end.  It  seemed  to  him  a  pity ;  some 
effort  should  be  made  to  save  it.  What  was  plainly 
needed  was  fresh  blood — quite  fresh  blood,  red  and 
not  blue. 

He  wondered  what  Lord  Edward  Beddard  was  like : 
whether  he  would  be  a  good  duke.  On  the  shelves 
beside  him  were  a  dozen  letter-files ;  and  he  took  it  that 
they  contained  letters  less  private  than  those  in  the 
bureau  in  his  smoking-room.  He  took  from  the  shelf 
the  letter-file  for  the  current  year,  and  sure  enough 
in  the  B  compartment  he  found  two  letters  from  Lord 
Edward  Beddard.  One  of  them  was  a  pressing  re- 


112  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

quest  to  the  duke  for  a  loan,  the  other  a  grudging 
letter  of  thanks  for  a  smaller  loan  than  that  requested. 
James  Whitaker  took  out  the  file  for  the  previous  year, 
and  found  in  it  two  letters  of  the  same  tenor ;  the  spell- 
ing of  all  four  of  them  showed  the  same  weaknesses, 
Lord  Edward  Beddard  did  not  seem  at  all  a  promising 
successor. 

In  the  same  compartment  he  found  a  letter  relating 
to  the  purchase  of  a  race-horse  named  Bustard,  and  to 
his  surprise  learned  from  it  that  he  was  the  owner  of 
a  racing-stable  at  Newmarket.  This  was  the  most  an- 
noying discovery  he  had  yet  made  at  the  Abbey.  He 
hated  the  turf;  his  loathing  of  it  was  one  of  the  strong- 
est of  his  feelings.  He  considered  that  he  owed  to  it 
his  crippled  dismal  life.  Then  and  there  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  remain  Duke  of  Lanchester  till  that  racing- 
stable  was  broken  up  and  scattered  to  the  four  quar- 
ters of  the  heavens. 

Then  a  happy  thought  came  to  him ;  and  he  hurried 
back  to  Mr.  Brinkman's  office  in  a  pleasant  glow. 

He  found  his  steward  writing  to  the  Lanchester  ar- 
chitect with  an  air  of  funereal  gloom.  The  slight 
distortion  of  feature  with  which  he  greeted  the  re- 
entry of  his  employer  was  hardly  as  much  as  a  wan 
smile. 

"I've  got  it,  Brinkman,"  growled  James  Whitaker. 
"I'm  going  to  sell  my  racing-stable  and  pay  for  the 
improvements  with  that." 

Mr.  Brinkman  sank  back  in  his  chair;  and  his  face 
filled  with  a  deeper  amazement  than  before;  then 
,s1owlv  he  began  to  smile.  He  had  no  interest  in  the 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  113 

racing-stable.  This  way  of  paying  for  the  improve- 
ments in  the  villages  would  not  affect  him  at  all;  the 
income  from  the  estate  would  pass  through  his  hands 
into  the  usual  channels. 

"This  is  a  change,"  he  said  solemnly.  "The  Dukes 
of  Lanchester  have  kept  race-horses  since  the  reign  of 
George  II.  They  must  have  spent — well  over  a  mil- 
lion— a  million  of  money — to  say  nothing  of  their 
losses  betting — on  racing." 

"Thrown  away,"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"Yes — well,  your  Grace,  I'm  afraid  we  must  admit 
they  haven't  received  much  benefit  from  it — very  lit- 
tle in  fact,"  said  Mr.  Brinkman  unctuously. 

"Anyhow,  it's  going  to  stop,"  growled  James  Whit- 
aker. "Get  on  to  selling  it  at  once." 

"But  this  will  be  a  longer  business  than  starting  the 
improvements  in  the  villages;  and  it's  no  good  your 
Grace's  being  impatient.  It  isn't  really,"  protested, 
Mr.  Brinkman. 

James  Whitaker  scowled  at  him  darkly:  "If  you 
don't  put  your  back  into  it  and  hustle  people  along, 
I'll  get  some  one  who  will,"  he  said  in  a  very  ugly 
tone. 

He  flung  out  of  the  office  and  left  Mr.  Brinkman 
shivering.  He  had  always  been  in  considerable  dread 
of  the  duke,  even  when  he  had  been  making  the  fullest 
use  of  his  ignorance  of  business  and  carelessness  about 
the  estate  to  manage  it  in  his  own  fashion.  But  it 
seemed  to  him  that  to-day  the  duke  had  begun  to  dis- 
play a  more  savage  ferocity  than  ever.  It  must  of 
course  be  the  effect  of  the  lightning-stroke;  and  he 


H4  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

wondered  whether  it  had  affected  his  employer's  mind. 
It  seemed  exceedingly  probable:  this  strange  sudden 
whim  to  sell  his  racing-stable  and  this  stranger  and  no 
less  sudden  whim  to  improve  the  condition  of  the  la- 
borers on  the  estate  indeed  savored  of  insanity.  He 
shivered  again:  the  duke  sane  had  been  formidable 
enough ;  the  duke  mad  would  hardly  bear  thinking  of. 

It  was  certainly  best  to  humor  him :  he  would  hustle 
the  architect  and  builders.  After  all,  the  duke's 
madness,  if  it  were  madness,  might  not  prove  an  un- 
mixed evil :  it  might  afford  openings. 

James  Whitaker  lost  his  formidable  air  almost  as 
he  left  the  office;  and  he  took  his  way  to  the  bridge 
to  meet  Miss  Elizabeth  Carton,  in  a  warm  glow  of 
self-approbation.  He  had  not  only  set  about  two  good 
works  in  rebuilding  the  villages  and  selling  the  racing- 
stable,  but  he  had  selected  two  good  works  which  he 
felt  would  be  obnoxious  indeed  to  Lord  Edward  Bed- 
dard.  Already  he  had  come  to  loathe  Lord  Edward 
Beddard ;  words  could  not  express  his  contempt  for  his 
spelling. 

Miss  Carton  kept  him  waiting  ten  minutes;  but  he 
did  not  chafe  at  her  tardiness.  He  was  enjoying  his 
expectation  of  seeing  her  and  the  exquisite  flavor  of 
his  cigar.  He  had  a  strong  enjoyable  feeling  that  he 
had  earned  that  cigar  and  all  the  good  things  he  was 
enjoying  at  Lanchester  Abbey;  he  had  done  a  good 
day's  work  for  future  Dukes  of  Lanchester. 

Then  Miss  Carton  came.  Plainly  she  had  not  hur- 
ried; she  looked  quite  cool.  There  was  no  need  for 
him  to  take  her  up  the  steps  of  the  terrace  and  across 


LWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  115 

it  in  full  view  of  the  windows.  They  walked  along 
the  wooded  bank  of  the  stream  to  a  side  gate  in  the 
garden,  and  along  a  little  path  which  wound  upward 
through  the  shrubberies,  along  the  ends  of  the  ter- 
races, and  so  on  to  the  little  lawn  before  the  blue 
drawing-room.  They  entered  it  unseen. 

He  set  about  showing  her  the  Abbey  in  the  same  cau- 
tious fashion ;  once  they  played  veritable  hide-and-seek 
with  Jenkinson  and  a  footman,  and  escaped  unseen. 
The  partnership  in  this  small  concealment  increased 
their  intimacy  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  importance. 
James  Whitaker  was  somewhat  disappointed  by  her 
manifest  lack  of  capacity  to  appreciate  the  beauty  of 
the  treasures  he  showed  her;  and  it  grieved  him  that 
he  could  not  possibly  develop  and  train  her  taste  in  the 
few  days  he  had  at  his  disposal.  Indeed,  she  an- 
noyed him  more  than  once  by  calling  a  beautiful  thing 
"pretty"  or,  worse  still,  "sweet." 

His  expert  knowledge  of  the  Abbey  treasures,  of 
the  china  and  the  pictures,  surprised  her:  it  indeed 
shook  her  belief  that  he  was  not  the  duke;  and  she 
kept  looking  at  him  with  puzzled  wondering  eyes.  The 
fact  that  now  and  again  he  told  her  the  cash  value  of 
this  or  that  treasure  threw  no  light  on  him  for  her. 

In  the  library  she  was  more  at  home,  since  her  fa- 
ther had  a  very  fair  library,  and  she  had,  out  of 
mere  boredom,  read  some  serious  books  which  do  not 
come  the  way  of  the  bulk  of  girls.  Indeed,  he  found 
her  far  better  read  in  history  than  himself.  None  the 
less,  the  books  she  borrowed  were  two  novels  fresh 
from  Mudie's. 


n6  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

When  it  was  time  for  tea,  they  stole  back  to  the  blue 
drawing-room,  out-  of  it  into  the  shrubberies,  round 
to  the  central  steps  of  the  terrace,  up  them,  and  along 
the  terrace  to  the  front  of  the  Abbey.  They  sat  down 
in  two  garden-chairs  outside  the  yellow  drawing-room ; 
and  he  sent  a  gardener  for  Jenkinson.  Well-trained 
as  he  was,  Jenkinson  could  not  quite  hide  his  surprise 
at  rinding  Miss  Carton  the  guest  of  the  duke. 

James  Whitaker  bade  him  bring  tea  to  them;  and 
it  was  not  long  coming.  Elizabeth  enjoyed  the  deli- 
cate cakes  and  the  fruit  exceedingly.  She  did  not 
affect  any  lack  of  a  healthy  appetite.  They  sat  talk- 
ing for  a  long  while  after  tea;  then  they  strolled 
through  the  gardens  for  a  while.  They  did  not  go 
again  into  the  Abbey,  for  he  was  sure  that  at  least  a 
committee  of  the  servants  was  watching  them;  and  it 
was  better  that  the  gossips  should  not  be  able  to  say 
that  she  had  been,  unchaperoned,  inside  the  Abbey 
with  him.  At  a  quarter  to  seven  she  said  that  she 
must  be  going  home ;  and  he  walked  with  her  down  to 
the  bridge. 

Before  they  parted  he  asked  her  to  meet  him  next 
morning  at  eleven;  and  she  said  readily  enough  that 
she  would.  But  he  thought  that  he  perceived  a  faint 
shade  of  disappointment  in  her  manner,  and  he  took 
it  that  she  had  been  expecting  that  they  would  meet 
again  that  evening. 

"It's  an  awful  nuisance,"  he  said  quickly.  "But 
I've  got  to  dine  at  Cubbington  Grange  to-night." 

She  frowned,  and  then  said  gravely:  "Be  careful 
that  no  one  finds  you  out." 


LWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  117 

"Finds  me  out?  There's  no  chance  whatever  of 
any  one's  finding  me  out.  Why,  even  you  haven't 
found  me  out." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  said  quickly. 

"Why,  you  don't  know  whether  I'm  the  duke  or 
not." 

"I  know  perfectly  well  that  you're  not  the  duke!" 
she  cried. 

"Oh,  no :  you  don't.  You  wish  you  did,"  he  said 
in  a  taunting  tone. 

"I  know  quite  well,"  she  said  firmly ;  and  she  walked 
across  the  bridge,  carrying  her  head  high  and  con- 
temptuously. 

He  watched  her  out  of  sight  and  then  walked  slowly 
back  to  the  Abbey,  thinking  of  her  very  pleasantly. 

He  thought  that  he  had  better  find  out  at  what  time 
he  must  be  ready  to  start  for  the  Grange,  and  went  up 
to  his  suite  of  rooms.  He  found  Tomkins  in  his  bed- 
room setting  out  his  clothes  for  the  evening. 

"Is  it  time  for  me  to  start  dressing  already?"  he 
said  grumpily. 

"Well,  your  Grace,  it  being  the  country,  they  dine 
at  eight — as  your  Grace  has  perhaps  forgotten.  And 
you'll  want  a  good  half-hour  to  do  the  twelve  miles  in. 
Leastways,  Hibbert  says  as  your  Grace  doesn't  like 
to  go  fast,  with  your  nerves  like  as  they  are  after  that 
lightning." 

"Oh,  very  well!"  growled  James  Whitaker;  and  he 
set  about  dressing. 

When  he  had  finished  it  occurred  to  him  that  bac- 
carat was  a  very  simple  game  and  that  it  would  be  in- 


n8  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

deed  hard  to  find  an  excuse  for  not  playing  it.  Ac- 
cordingly he  took  from  the  secret  drawers  of  the  bu- 
reau in  his  smoking-room  five  hundred  dollars  in  notes 
and  gold.  He  did  not  know  how  much  a  duke  was  ex- 
pected to  win  or  lose  in  an  evening;  but  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  limit  his  losses  (since  he  knew  nothing  of 
the  game,  he  was  sure  he  must  lose)  to  five  hundred 
dollars.  That  should  be  sufficient  to  maintain  his  po- 
sition. 

He  started  for  the  Grange  in  a  grumpy  frame  of 
mind,  for  he  was  thinking  that  it  would  have  been  so 
much  more  pleasant  to  spend  the  evening  with  Eliza- 
beth in  the  park.  But  it  was  important,  very  important, 
that  he  should  display  himself  firmly  among  his  neigh- 
bors. 

He  was  indeed  somewhat  nervous  about  his  man- 
ners, especially  his  table  manners,  for  though  his  wife 
had  maintained  fretfully  in  her  home  the  standard  she 
had  brought  back  from  her  boarding-school,  he  was 
not  sure  that  they  would  pass  muster  in  one  of  the 
stately  homes  of  England.  Moreover,  he  was  apt,  in 
absent-minded  moments,  to  revert  to  the  manners  he 
had  used  in  William  Ward's  kitchen  before  marriage 
had  promoted  him  to  the  parlor.  But  he  was  not  very 
nervous ;  his  two  days'  success  and  the  good  living  had 
stimulated  him  so  that  he  was  almost  ready  to  take 
pleasure  in  the  struggle.  It  was  a  heartening  thought 
that  Elizabeth  Carton,  the  actual  witness  of  his  trans- 
formation, was  not  sure  whether  he  was,  or  was  not, 
the  Duke  of  Lanchester. 

He   found  Cubbington   Grange  very    unlike    Lan- 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  119 

Chester  Abbey.  It  was  a  large,  modern,  red-brick, 
imitation  Tudor  house;  and  its  inferiority  to  the  Ab- 
bey pleased  him :  dukes  ought  to  have  finer  houses  than 
barons.  In  the  drawing-room  he  found  his  four 
guests  of  the  day  before  and  fifteen  strangers.  All  the 
strangers  seemed  to  have  known  the  duke,  for  they 
greeted  him  warmly  and  heaped  on  him  condolences 
on  his  accident.  He  thought  it  well  not  to  change  his 
attitude  to  the  world,  and  was  short  and  grumpy  with 
them  in  a  husky  growl.  They  appeared  to  find  his 
bearing  everything  they  had  expected. 

He  gathered  that  Lord  Cubbington  was  a  septuag- 
enarian who  dined  in  his  own  rooms.  He  took  Lady 
Cubbington  in  to  dinner ;  and  since  in  the  circumstances 
she  could  not  be  confidential,  her  nearness  did  not  les- 
sen his  enjoyment  of  the  meal.  Indeed,  he  found  the 
warm  tenderness  in  her  beautiful  blue  eyes  very  pleas- 
ant ;•  and  as  soon  as  he  learned  that  he  was  expected  to 
press  her  foot,  he  pressed  it  with  genuine  conviction. 
The  fact  that  she  was  a  married  woman  had  somehow 
grown  less  obtrusive. 

The  attention  seemed  to  please  her;  and  the  tender- 
ness in  her  eyes  grew  warmer.  Once,  when  their" 
neighbors  were  talking  with  animation  about  Mr. 
Lloyd  George  to  people  farther  down  the  table,  she 
said  quickly  in  a  low  voice : 

"Well,  are  you  beginning  to  remember  me  better?" 

"I  never  forgot  you,"  he  said  readily. 

She  looked  pleased,  but  she  said:  "Of  course  you 
say  that.  But  all  the  same  you  had  forgotten  me  yes- 
terday afternoon." 


120  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Never  for  a  moment!"  said  James  Whitaker 
stoutly. 

The  cooking  was  excellent,  and  the  champagne  ad- 
mirable. James  Whitaker  felt  that  the  only  thing 
lacking  to  his  complete  well-being  was  to  have  Eliza- 
beth Carton  on  the  other  side  of  him.  Then  he  re- 
flected that  after  all  that  might  not  add  to  his  well- 
being:  the  two  women  might  not  prove  sympathetic 
to  each  other.  After  all,  the  blue  eyes  of  Lady  Cub- 
bington  were  of  a  wonderful  and  delightful  blue. 

Baccarat  was  the  business  of  the  evening;  the  din- 
ner consisted  of  only  five  courses,  and  they  did  not 
linger  over  their  coffee  and  cigarettes,  but  betoolc 
themselves  briskly  to  the  large  drawing-room,  in 
which  a  long  table  covered  with  green  cloth  had  been 
set. 

Lady  Cubbington  asked  James  Whitaker  if  he  would 
•like  to  take  the  bank;  and  he  refused  gloomily,  de- 
claring that  the  lightning-stroke  had  made  his  mind 
hazy  about  the  game,  and  that  therefore  he  had  better 
watch  it  till  he  had  learned  it  again.  Sir  Richard 
Starton  then  took  the  bank,  a  five-hundred-dollar 
bank ;  and  they  began  to  play. 

James  Whitaker  soon  learned  the  simple  game ;  and 
he  began  to  play.  At  first  he  played  cautiously,  feel- 
ing his  way,  staking  only  ten  dollars  at  a  time.  He 
won  steadily,  and  increased  his  stake  to  twenty-five 
dollars.  He  won  steadily  and  increased  it  to  fifty  dol- 
lars. He  still  won  steadily.  He  was  not  greatly  elated, 
he  only  felt  that  it  was  as  it  should  be :  it  was  in  the 


;VVHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  121 

very  nature  of  things  that  dukes  should  win  at  bac- 
carat. 

Sir  Richard  Starton  gave  up  the  bank  and  Lord 
Dymchurch  took  it.  He  gave  place  to  the  Earl  of 
Ashow.  James  Whitaker  still  won.  Lady  Cubbing- 
ton  was  very  pleased  by  his  success,  and  sitting  beside 
him,  she  faithfully  followed  his  betting.  It  was  pleas- 
ant to  win,  but  after  all  he  was  winning  for  another 
man,  his  detested  successor.  But  he  did  not  find  the 
game  very  amusing;  and  he  felt  that  a  duke  must  not 
show  himself  too  eager  to  win  money.  After  an  hour 
of  it,  therefore,  he  rose  and  strolled  out  into  the  gar- 
den. 

His  mind  was  in  a  pleasant  haziness ;  and  it  had  not 
occurred  to  him  that  Lady  Cubbington  would  naturally 
join  him.  Her  coming  startled  him,  therefore ;  and  for 
a  moment  he  thought  of  flying  back  to  the  baccarat. 
Second  thoughts  assured  him  not  only  that  it  would 
annoy  her  bitterly,  but  also  that  it  would  be  unmanly. 
Besides,  she  looked  prettier  than  ever  in  the  moon- 
light. Still,  he  strolled  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
ppen  windows  of  the  bright  drawing-room  till  he  found 
that  she  was  growing  restive ;  then  mere  politeness  de- 
manded that  they  should  stroll  to  a  part  of  the  garden 
lighted,  and  not  too  well  lighted,  only  by  the  moon. 
Unused  as  he  was  to  kissing,  she  had  less  reason  to 
complain  of  him  than  the  day  before;  he  was  losing 
his  diffidence.  Besides,  the  age  of  her  husband 
weighed  with  him.  Her  talk  threw  light  on  the  per- 
sonalities and  habits  of  his  fellow  guests;  and  his  re- 


122  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

ceptive  mind  stored  up  the  information.  After  a 
while  he  suggested  that  they  should  return  to  their 
baccarat ;  and  with  some  reluctance  she  came. 

"It's  no  wonder  you  want  to  go  on  playing,"  she  said. 
''You  don't  often  win." 

"Don't  I?"  he  said. 

"Of  course  you  don't,"  she  said  quickly. 

"I'd  forgotten,"  he  said.  Then,  squeezing  her  arm 
gently  to  mark  the  point,  he  added  happily:  "One 
can't  be  lucky  in  everything." 

He  felt,  with  some  reason,  that  he  was  growing  a 
gallant  man. 

But  her  words  had  put  a  new  thought  into  his 
mind:  it  was  to  him,  James  Whitaker,  that  fortune 
was  being  kind ;  her  bounty  was  not  for  the  Dukes  of 
Lanchester.  It  was  true  that  he  had  started  playing 
with  the  late  duke's  money ;  but  that  five  hundred  dol- 
lars was  intact  in  his  pocket;  his  winnings  were  his 
own.  He  wondered  he  had  not  perceived  this  earlier, 
and  came  back  to  the  game  with  quite  a  new  zest. 

Fortune  still  smiled  on  him;  and  for  an  hour  again 
he  won  steadily.  Then  the  luck  turned ;  and  he  began 
to  lose.  Ten  minutes'  losing  was  enough  for  him; 
and  he  rose  and  said  that  he  must  be  going  home.  The 
announcement  was  received  with  the  liveliest  surprise ; 
and  he  learned  that  they  proposed  to  play  for  yet  an- 
other two  hours,  and  that  the  late  duke  had  always 
been  the  very  last  to  leave  the  table.  But  he  was  in  no 
mind  to  weary  fortune ;  losing,  the  game  had  lost  its 
savor.  He  said  that,  after  being  struck  by  lightning, 
he  must  go  to  bed  early  for  the  next  few  days,  and  took 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  123 

his  leave.  In  the  process  of  taking  it,  he  learned  that 
he  was  giving  a  dinner  and  a  baccarat  party  at  the 
Abbey  on  Saturday  evening. 

He  had  gone  barely  a  mile  when  he  found  the  drive 
in  the  moonlight  so  delightful  that  he  bade  his  chauf- 
feur make  a  circuit  and  prolong  it.  It  was  past  mid- 
night, therefore,  when  he  reached  the  Abbey.  He 
found  Jenkinson  himself  sitting  up  for  him,  and  por- 
tentous with  news :  the  lightning  had  not  confined  it- 
self with  men  of  rank;  it  had  also  struck  a  tramp  on 
Oak  Tree  Knoll.  A  keeper  had  found  his  body  lying 
under  the  oak. 

"What  was  he  doing  there?"  growled  James  Whit- 
aker. 

"We  think  he  must  have  been  taking  shelter,  your 
Grace,"  said  Jenkinson,  who  had  himself  questioned 
the  keeper  closely,  and  discussed  the  matter  fully  with 
the  rest  of  the  household  at  supper. 

"Taking  shelter?  All  that  distance  from  the  road? 
Nonsense!"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"Well,  now  your  Grace  points  it  out,  it  is  a  long 
way  from  the  road,"  said  Jenkinson,  in  the  tone  of  one 
impressed.  "P'r'aps  he  was  after  pheasant  eggs,  your 
Grace." 

"Well,  anyhow,  we  couldn't  have  been  struck  by  the 
same  flash,"  growled  James  Whitaker,  beginning  to 
mount  the  stairs. 

"No,  your  Grace.  Where  was  your  Grace  when 
you  were  struck?" 

"Do  you  suppose  I  can  remember?"  growled  James 
Whitaker  contemptuously. 


124  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

Jenkinson  felt  himself  justly  rebuked. 

James  Whitaker  found  whisky  and  brandy  and  soda 
and  sandwiches  on  the  side-table  in  his  smoking-room, 
mixed  himself  a  brandy  and  soda,  lighted  a  cigarette, 
sat  down  to  the  table  and  began  to  empty  his  pockets. 

He  had  kept  no  count  of  his  winnings,  though  he 
knew  roughly  that  he  had  won  a  good  deal  more  than 
five  hundred  dollars.  He  was  surprised  to  find  that 
they  amounted  to  sixteen  hundred  and  ten  dollars. 

The  conviction  that  this  sum  was  the  fruit  of  his 
own  luck  and  skill  was  greatly  strengthened  by  its  un- 
expected size.  Indeed  he  had  now  no  doubt  about  it; 
he  was  sure  that  the  duke  would  have  gone  on  playing 
after  the  luck  turned,  and  lost  it  all.  Every  one  of  the 
other  players  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  he  would 
do  so.  Undoubtedly  his  own  self-restraint  had  brought 
him  away  a  winner. 

It  was  indeed  a  cheering  conviction :  here  was  more 
money  than  he  had  cleared  from  his  business  in  the 
last  three  years.  It  relieved  him  of  anxiety  about  the 
future  for  the  next  three  years;  it  was  the  capital  he 
needed  to  remove  his  business  to  a  more  thronged 
thoroughfare  in  Hammersmith.  He  could  enjoy  the 
rest  of  his  week's  holiday  with  a  mind  quite  at  ease. 
He  thought  of  Elizabeth  Carton  and  said:  "Why,  I 
might  even  make  it  ten  days." 

He  went  to  bed  joyful  and  awoke  joyful.  The 
possession  of  sixteen  hundred  and  ten  dollars  had 
changed  the  world  for  him.  It  had  made  him  a 
free  man. 

At  breakfast  he  learned  from  Jenkinson  that  owing 


iWHITAKER'S   DUKEDOM  125 

to  the  fact  that  the  body  had  been  lying  on  Oak  Tree 
Knoll  for  so  long,  the  inquest  on  the  dead  duke  would 
be  held  that  very  afternoon.  He  showed  himself  in- 
different enough  about  the  matter.  He  asked  carelessly 
if  anything  had  been  found  out  about  the  man;  and 
when  Jenkinson  said  that  nothing  had,  he  said  even 
more  carelessly : 

"I  should  rather  like  to  know  what  he  was  doing 
in  the  wood." 

When  he  had  finished  his  breakfast,  he  opened  his 
letters.  He  was  vexed  to  find  one  from  Lord  Edward 
Beddard,  in  which  he  said  that  he  was  coming  down  to 
the  Abbey  on  the  following  Wednesday  on  a  matter 
of  urgent  importance.  It  seemed  to  James  Whitaker 
that  he  had  better  depart  on  Tuesday  night,  or,  at  the 
latest,  early  on  Wednesday  morning ;  it  was  not  worth 
while  exposing  himself  to  this  fresh  and  considerable 
risk  of  being  recognized  for  the  sake  of  a  few  more 
hours  at  the  Abbey:  a  brother  might  very  well  per- 
ceive differences  which  other  people  had  missed.  None 
the  less,  the  thought  of  having  to  fly  at  a  fixed  time, 
when  he  had  been  resolved  to  vanish  at  his  leisure,  just 
when  the  fancy  took  him,  irked  his  stubborn  spirit. 

He  had  just  finished  his  breakfast  when  Mr.  Lam- 
plow,  the  architect  from  Lanchester,  arrived.  James 
Whitaker  at  once  drove  him  in  the  racing  car  to  the 
village  and  the  hamlets,  explained  to  him  the  improve- 
ments he  proposed,  and  demanded  his  plans  by  Satur- 
day night,  that  he  might  consider  them  at  his  leisure 
on  Sunday,  and  post  them  off  to  the  builders  on  Sun- 
day night,  so  that  he  might  have  their  contracts  to 


126  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

sign  on  Tuesday  morning.     He  made  it  clear  that  he 
wanted  contracts  for  each  of  the  four  places. 

It  was  but  natural,  and  it  surprised  him  not  at  all, 
that  he  should  find  that  his  demand  outraged  the  im- 
memorial tradition  of  an  honorable  profession.  The 
plans  of  cottages  and  of  systems  of  drainage,  though 
they  might  actually  be  made  in  a  few  hours,  could  not 
possibly  be  produced  in  a  finished  state  in  two  days. 
But  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  his  ducal  fury  could 
not  abate  the  tradition.  He  was  forced  to  content 
himself  with  a  compromise :  Mr.  Lamplow,  an  amiable 
bearded  man,  undertook  to  let  him  have  the  plan  of  the 
proposed  drainage  system  of  Little  Lanchester  ready 
by  Saturday  night;  and  when  James  Whitaker  made 
it  clear  that  he  wished  to  have  the  builders  actually 
at  work  on  it  on  Wednesday  morning,  he  offered  to 
make  his  plan  in  conjunction  with  one  of  the  Judsons, 
the  chief  firm  of  builders  in  Lanchester,  so  that  they 
could  prepare,  and  he  could  check  their  estimates  as  he 
went  on.  James  Whitaker  accepted  this  offer  eagerly ; 
but  he  went  on  to  urge  that  plans  of  the  three  different 
cottages  of  which  he  wished  the  village  and  the  out- 
lying hamlets  of  Wodden,  Oiigleigh  and  Gant,  to  be 
composed,  should  be  prepared  in  the  same  way.  To 
this  the  architect  agreed;  and  James  Whitaker  saw 
his  way  to  pledging  his  successor  to  considerable  im- 
provements before  his  flight,  for  if  the  architect  ful- 
filled his  promises,  he  would  be  able  to  contract  defi- 
nitely for  the  sanitation  and  rebuilding  of  at  least 
Little  Lanchester.  He  ended  by  despatching  the  archi- 
tect to  Lanchester  in  the  racing  car  to  bring  back  with 


LWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  127 

him  his  own  assistant  and  a  representative  of  the  firm 
of  builders.  Then  he  set  about  hustling  Mr.  Brinkman 
to  have  ready  men  to  help  them  in  the  simpler  parts  of 
the  work,  and  impressed  on  him  deeply,  by  almost 
ferocious  iteration,  that  it  was  his  business  to  see  that 
neither  the  architect,  nor  the  builder,  nor  any  of  the 
helpers,  wasted  a  moment. 

He  perceived  that  he  had  Mr.  Brinkman  thoroughly 
harried ;  but  he  also  perceived  that  the  straining  stew- 
ard would  use  every  effort  to  carry  out  his  orders.  He 
was  pleased  with  himself.  He  had  never  suspected 
that  he  possessed  this  capacity  for  organization. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JAMES  WHITAKER  had  spent  no  long  time  on 
Mr.  Lamplow;  he  had  been  indeed  direct  and  to 
the  point ;  with  Mr.  Brinkman  he  had  been  even  more 
direct.  Therefore  he  reached  the  bridge  at  a  few  min- 
utes past  eleven  to  find  that  Elizabeth  had  not  yet 
come.  As  he  waited  for  her  the  necessity  of  keeping 
her  in  a  good  temper  during  the  rest  of  his  short  stay 
grew  clearer  to  him  than  ever;  it  was  a  matter  of  the 
merest  prudence  to  keep  on  the  friendliest  terms  with 
her.  He  did  not  put  it  to  himself  as  a  pleasant  thing  ; 
he  put  it  to  himself  as  a  duty,  sternly.  If  he  could 
inspire  into  her  so  strong  a  friendliness  as  would  pre- 
vent her  telling  the  story  of  what  she  had  seen  on  Oak 
Tree  Knoll,  even  after  he  had  disappeared,  it  would  be 
so  much  the  better.  Not  that  he  was  in  any  great  fear 
of  the  consequences  if  she  did  tell:  it  was  a  far  cry 
from  Lanchester  to  Hammersmith ;  and  there  was  but 
little  likelihood  that  he  would  be  discovered  once  more 
buried  in  his  natural  obscurity.  But  it  was  better  to 
take  no  chances,  better  that  she  should  not  tell  at  all. 
Presently  he  was  wondering,  with  no  little  earnest- 
ness, if  it  could  by  any  means  be  brought  about  that 
he  should  sometimes  meet  her  after  he  had  retired 
from  the  Abbey.  For  a  little  while  the  prospect  filled 
him  with  a  keen  exhilaration;  but  presently  he  aban- 

128 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  129 

doned  the  idea  with  a  sigh:  to  what  purpose  would 
they  meet?  He  was  a  married  man. 

Then  Elizabeth  came,  fresh  and  charming  and  de- 
lightful; and  his  exhilaration  returned.  He  felt  a 
sense  of  ease  and  freedom  with  her  which  he  had  en- 
joyed in  the  case  of  no  other  woman.  It  may  have 
been  owing  to  the  fact  that  his  first  careless  and  as- 
sured attitude  to  her  had  been  to  no  small  degree  the 
fruit  of  the  stimulating  lightning-stroke,  the  bottle  of 
champagne  and  the  two  glasses  of  '65  brandy.  The 
stimuli  were  no  more ;  but  the  attitude  persisted. 

She  was  greatly  excited  about  the  finding  of  the 
duke's  body  and  the  coming  inquest,  matters  which 
had  slipped  well  into  the  background  of  his  mind.  His 
plainly  unaffected  indifference  about  them  impressed 
her.  She  had  expected  to  find  him  nervous  and  anx- 
ious. His  carelessness  set  her  once  more  wondering 
whether  he  was  not  the  duke,  whether  there  was  not 
some  fantastic  explanation  of  that  change  of  clothes 
on  Oak  Tree  Knoll.  She  talked  to  him  about  the  dis- 
covery and  the  inquest  at  length;  and  he  let  her  talk 
her  fill.  Never  once  did  she  stir  him  from  his  indiffer- 
ence. 

At  last  she  stopped  talking  about  them,  grew  peace- 
ful, simply  ready  to  enjoy  quietly  his  companionship. 
The  thought  of  marrying  him  and  becoming  a  duchess 
was  at  the  moment  far  away  in  the  background  of  her 
mind. 

It  was  he  who  brought  it  into  the  foreground.  In 
a  sudden  happy  expansion  of  his  spirit  at  the  sight  of 
her  beautiful  face  he  said  : 


130  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Well,  if  ever  we  do  succeed  in  falling  in  love  with 
each  other,  I  shall  have  the  most  beautiful  and 
charming  duchess  that  ever  was  in  England.  The 
Gunning  sisters  can  not  compare  with  you." 

She  flushed  as  she  said :  "But  it's  you  who  are  go- 
ing to  do  the  falling  in  love.  There's  no  'we'  about  it." 

"No,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

Her  statement  of  the  conditions  relieved  him  of  any 
uneasiness  lest  she  should  fall  in  love  with  him,  and  be 
unhappy  at  his  disappearance.  Of  course  there  had 
not  been  any  real  danger  of  that:  his  rugged-featured 
face  was  not  at  all  likely  to  appeal  to  a  girl  of  her  age. 
None  the  less  it  was  well  to  be  quite  sure. 

"Who  were  the  Gunning  sisters  ?"  she  said. 

He  told  her  their  story ;  and  at  the  end  of  it  she  said 
impatiently :  "That's  the  worst  of  living  in  a  place  like 
this :  one  never  hears  about  interesting  things."  Then 
with  a  sigh  she  added :  "And  after  all  they  were  real 
dukes  they  married." 

The  suggestion  that  he  was  lacking  in  quality  nettled 
him  beyond  all  reason;  and  he  said  with  some  heat: 
"If  ever  I  do  marry  you,  you'll  find  that  you've  mar- 
ried a  very  real  duke  indeed." 

"If  ever  you  marry  me?"  cried  Elizabeth  with  equal 
heat.  "It  was  7  who  insisted  on  our  being  married." 

"And  I  refused,"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"You  didn't  dare  to  refuse  outright!"  she  said 
fiercely. 

They  glowered  at  each  other.  But  even  glowering 
she  looked  so  pretty  that  James  Whitaker  saw  on  the 
instant  the  folly  of  wasting  these  golden  hours. 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  131 

"Well,  well :  it  isn't  worth  scrapping  about,"  he 
said  in  a  placable  tone.  "What  we've  got  to  do  is  to 
fall  in  love  with  each  other." 

"No,  no:  there's  no  'we*  about  it!"  she  cried.  "I 
keep  telling  you  so.  It's  you  who  object  to  a  loveless 
marriage,  not  me.  I  haven't  got  to  fall  in  love  with 
you  at  all." 

"Oh,  well:  have  it  your  own  way,"  said  James 
Whitaker  indulgently.  "It's  too  fine  a  morning  for 
scrapping." 

She  said  a  few  words,  in  a  less  hostile  tone,  about 
the  improbability  of  a  real  duke's  using  the  wor4 
"scrapping."  Then,  when  he  refused  to  accept  the 
challenge  and  try  to  justify  his  use  of  it,  she  began  to 
discuss  one  of  the  novels  she  had  borrowed  the  day 
before.  It  dealt  with  well-to-do  people;  and  since  he 
was  ignorant  of  the  attitude  to  life  of  the  well-to-do, 
of  their  feelings  and  habits,  he  played  but  a  poor  part 
in  the  discussion. 

He  saved  his  reputation  happily  by  saying:  "You 
can't  expect  me  to  know  about  people  of  that  kind.  I 
never  came  into  contact  with  these  middle-class  people 
— not  intimate  contact.  Of  course  I  see  some  of  them : 
I  see  Doctor  Arbuthnot  and  Brinkman.  But  what's 
that?" 

Elizabeth  gazed  at  him  with  a  puzzled  frown:  his 
ignorance  was  manifestly  genuine;  and  the  inevitable 
conclusion  was  that  either  he  was  the  real  Duke  of 
Lanchester,  or  a  member  of  the  lower  classes.  Yet 
his  hands  and  his  speech  made  the  latter  alternative 
impossible. 


132  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

He  perceived  her  bewilderment;  and  it  pleased  him. 
He  enjoyed  mystifying  her.  It  shook  her  girlish  as- 
surance. 

"I  can't  conceive  why  these  writing  fellows  don't 
write  their  books  about  the  right  people,"  he  growled. 

Elizabeth  eyed  him  with  yet  more  puzzled  eyes; 
then  she  said :  "If  by  the  right  people  you  mean  dukes 
and  duchesses,  how  would  authors  get  to  know  them? 
Besides,  the  interesting  people  aren't  the  people  for 
whom  everything  is  made  quite  smooth  by  money. 
They're  the  people  who  are  struggling." 

He  was  in  full  agreement  with  her.  Indeed  the 
sentiment  had  his  deepest  approval;  but  he  said:  "I 
don't  agree  with  you  at  all.  Now  look  at  you.  Things 
are  made  quite  smooth  for  you ;  yet  you're  as  interest- 
ing as  can  be." 

Elizabeth  looked  pleased  to  be  told  that  she  was  in- 
teresting; then  she  frowned  deeply  and  said:  "Me! 
Me  have  no  trouble?  Everything  made  smooth  for 
me?  When  I'm  shut  up  in  this  horrid  little  village  all 
my  life?" 

"But  you're  not  shut  up  in  it.  At  least  it's  very  un- 
likely that  you'll  stay  shut  up  in  it.  Women  with  a 
face  like  yours  always  have  things  made  easy  for 
them,  if  they  don't  play  the  absolute  fool." 

"You're  talking  nonsense  just  to  flatter  me,"  said 
Elizabeth.  "Of  course  I  have  to  struggle." 

"No,  you  don't,"  he  said  quickly.  'It's  I  who 
have  to  struggle.  I  have  to  struggle  not  to  get  attracted 
by  you  too  quickly.  It  would  never  do  for  the  liking 
to  be  all  on  my  side  as  well  as  the  dukedom."  • 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  133 

Elizabeth  gazed  at  him  thoughtfully,  considering 
him.  It  was  always  possible  that  she  might  fall  in  love 
with  him.  .  .  .  Certainly  he  was  not  by  any  means 
so  ugly  as  she  had  considered  him  at  first.  ...  In 
fact,  she  was  beginning  to  find  the  ruggedness  of  his 
face  rather  attractive.  ...  It  made  him  look  the 
kind  of  man  on  whom  one  could  rely.  .  .  .  And  his 
eyes  were  very  attractive,  very  fine  gray  eyes. 

She  turned  her  eyes  from  them,  flushing  a  little; 
they  were  regarding  her  with  an  admiration  she  found 
disturbing. 

They  were  silent  for  a  while ;  then  James  Whitaker 
said  abruptly:  "By  the  way,  what  kind  of  a  man  is 
my  brother  Edward?  I  seem  to  remember  that  he's 
fat  and  beefy ;  and  of  course  he's  always  bothering  me 
for  money.  But  what's  he  like?" 

Elizabeth's  eyes  sparkled  and  her  face  flushed  with 
a  sudden  anger  as  she  cried :  "Oh,  he's  a  perfectly  hor- 
rible person!  Everybody  says  so!  Why,  one  reason 
why  I  didn't  go  straight  to  the  police  and  tell  them  that 
you  weren't  the  duke  was  that  if  the  duke  was  dead, 
Lord  Edward  Beddard  would  come  into  the  title." 

"Oh,  he's  as  bad  as  that,  is  he?  I'd  got  it  in  my 
mind  that  he  was  a  bad  lot,"  said  James  Whitaker 
carelessly. 

"Oh,  he  is!"  said  Elizabeth  with  the  most  earnest 
conviction.  "Besides,  he  insulted  me." 

"Insulted  you?"  cried  James  Whitaker.  "Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  about  it  ?" 

"Why,  you  weren't  here." 

He  had  merely  meant  why  had  she  not  told  him 


134  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

sooner;  but  the  chance  was  too  good  to  miss;  and  he 
said  with  a  good  show  of  impatience:  "Of  course  I 
was  here !  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?" 

Elizabeth  stared  at  him  with  eyes  full  of  amaze- 
ment. She  stammered:  "B-b-but  I  didn't  know  you 
then — at  least  n-n-not  really." 

"That  doesn't  matter.  You  ought  to  have  come  to 
me  about  it  at  once.  You  don't  suppose  I  should  let 
a  blackguard  like  Edward  go  about  insulting  people 
here.  I  should  have  jumped  on  him  hard,"  cried 
James  Whitaker  with  a  fine  show  of  indignation. 

"B-b-but  I  thought — w-w-we  all  thought  you  were 
like  him,"  she  stammered. 

"Like  Edward?  Of  course  I'm  not  like  Edward!" 
he  cried,  frowning  angrily. 

"I  didn't  know,"  said  Elizabeth  rather  faintly,  taken 
aback  by  his  violence. 

"Well,  you  ought  to  have  known!"  growled  James 
Whitaker. 

They  were  silent  a  while;  and  he  scowled  on. 

Then  she  said :    "Then  you  are  the  duke  after  all?" 

"Of  course  I'm  the  duke,"  he  growled. 

In  some  odd  way  his  anger  that  Lord  Edward  Bed- 
dard  had  insulted  her  had  made  him  feel  every  inch  a 
Duke  of  Lanchester.  Also  for  the  moment  he 
looked  it. 

Then  Elizabeth  said,  with  some  reluctance:  "But 
if  you're  really  the  duke,  I  ought  not  to  be  meeting 
you  like  this." 

"Why  ever  not?    If  you  don't  mind  meeting  a  false 


LWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  135 

duke,  why  on  earth  should  you  mind  meeting  a  real 
one?"  he  cried  in  considerable  surprise. 

Elizabeth  rose  with  an  air  of  the  firmest  determina- 
tion and  said :  "If  you  are  really  the  duke,  you  have 
such  a  bad  character  that  I  can't  possibly  go  on  meet- 
ing you." 

"There's  nothing  like  being  quite  frank,"  said  James 
Whitaker. 

"Besides,  if  you  are  the  real  duke,  you're  only 
making  fun  of  me,"  she  added. 

She  looked  so  determined  that  he  said  quickly : 
"You  know  I'm  not  the  duke.  You  know  that  the 
real  duke  is  dead.  You  saw  his  body  lying  under  the 
oak." 

Elizabeth's  face  was  full  of  the  uttermost  bewilder- 
ment. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  believe,"  she  cried.  "You've 
muddled  things  up  so  completely  now  that  I  don't 
know  whether  you're  the  duke  or  whether  you're  not." 

"Of  course  I'm  not  the  duke,  I  tell  you  I'm  not; 
do  sit  down !"  he  said  impatiently. 

She  yielded  to  his  imperative,  not  to  say  bullying, 
tone  and  sat  down.  But  she  did  not  look  any  less  be- 
wildered. 

"Now  we'll  work  things  out  on  this  theory,  that  I'm 
not  the  real  duke,  but  in  such  a  way  that,  if  we  fall 
in  love  with  each  other,  you  may  become  the  Duchess 
of  Lanchester,  and  that  that  scoundrel  Edward  may 
not  come  into  the  title.  I'm  to  go  on  seeming  to  be 
the  real  duke.  Does  that  satisfy  you?" 


136  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

He  spoke  in  the  same  compelling,  not  to  say  bully- 
ing, tone;  and  she  looked  at  him  helplessly,  almost 
stupidly. 

"You've  got  me  so  thoroughly  muddled  that  I  don't 
know  which  you  are,"  she  complained. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "You'll 
soon  get  clear  again;  and  we'll  go  on  just  as  we  are." 

She  shook  her  head  and  said :  "I  am  so  dreadfully 
muddled." 

She  looked  muddled,  mazed  indeed;  but  also  she 
looked  charming.  He  was  pleased  that  he  had  in- 
duced her  to  stay.  Then  his  conscience  began  to  re- 
proach him.  Why  hadn't  he  let  her  go?  ...  She 
had  been  convinced — definitely  convinced  that  he  was 
the  real  duke;  and  all  danger  from  her  had  passed. 
.  .  .  The  only  object  of  his  meetings  with  her  had 
been  to  secure  her  silence.  .  .  .  He  had  secured  it 
safely,  for  good  and  all;  and  then  he  had  quite  delib- 
erately thrown  away  the  advantage  at  which  he  had 
been  aiming,  had  deliberately  awakened  again  her  sus- 
picions. 

He  did  his  best  to  feel  surprised  at  his  action,  and 
to  assure  himself  that  he  had  been  afflicted  by  a  sudden 
access  of  idiocy.  But  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he 
knew  very  well  that  he  had  been  actuated  only  by  the 
keenest  desire  that  she  should  continue  to  meet  him. 

Of  course  the  meetings  could  lead  to  nothing.  The 
vision  of  Millicent,  pale,  sandy,  sharp- featured  and 
querulous,  rose  in  his  mind.  He  hardened  his  heart 
and  resolved,  yet  again,  to  have  his  holiday  as  pleasant 
as  possible. 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  137 

He  looked  at  Elizabeth  earnestly;  she  was  looking 
at  him  with  a  still  bewildered  air.  He  lighted  a  cigar 
carefully  and  slowly.  Then  he  said : 

"You  don't  mind  having  these  talks  with  me  ?" 

"No :  I — I  like  them.    They're  a  change,"  she  said. 

"I  like  them  too.  But  it  isn't  so  much  that  as  that 
they're  necessary — that  is,  if  you  still  want  to  be  a 
duchess. 

"Yes — I  do,"  said  Elizabeth;  but  her  tone  lacked 
something  of  its  old  certainty. 

'That's  all  right,"  said  James  Whitaker. 

They  both  felt,  for  no  reason  quite  clear  to  them, 
that  they  had  made  a  yet  further  advance  in  intimacy ; 
and  the  talk  turned  on  her  earlier  life.  He  learned 
that  she  was  her  father's  only  child,  and  had  lived  at 
Little  Lanchester  since  she  was  six  years  old ;  but  her 
childhood  had  been  enlivened  by  the  companionship 
of  her  cousin  Henry,  the  son  of  an  uncle,  a  tea-planter 
in  India.  Henry  had  spent  his  holidays  at  the  vicar- 
age during  all  his  school-days,  and  had  only  gone  to 
join  his  father  in  India  at  the  end  of  the  last  autumn. 
The  great  period  of  her  life  had  been  her  eighteenth 
year,  which  she  had  spent  at  a  finishing  school  at  Wim- 
bledon. Since  her  cousin's  departure  she  had  enjoyed 
no  society  save  that  of  Cissie  Wyse. 

"I  expect  you  miss  that  cousin  of  yours,"  said  James 
Whitaker,  looking  at  her  earnestly  with  suspicious 
eyes. 

"Yes — I  did,"  she  said,  flushing  under  his  gaze. 

James  Whitaker  disliked  the  flush  heartily;  and  he 
said  grumpily :  "I  expect  he  made  love  to  you." 


138  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Perhaps  he  did,"  she  said ;  and  the  flush  deepened. 

James  Whitaker  felt  the  first  pang  of  jealousy  he 
had  ever  felt  in  his  life,  and  its  violence  surprised  him. 
He  had  not  known  that  he  was  capable  of  jealousy. 

"I  believe  you're  engaged  to  him,"  he  growled  sav- 
agely. 

"Fm  nothing  of  the  kind!  Do  you  think  I  should 
be  meeting  you  like  this  if  I  were  ?" 

He  felt  somewhat  comforted. 

"Besides,  there  was  no  chance  of  it.  I  knew  him  too 
well.  I  knew  him  as  well  as  I  know  myself,"  she  said. 

"Ah,  well;  you'll  never  know  me  very  well,"  he 
said  in  a  tone  of  gloomy  satisfaction. 

She  looked  at  him  and  wondered.  She  did  not  think 
that  she  would.  He  certainly  was  interesting. 

"Why  not?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  a  woman  couldn't — or  a  man  either,"  he  said. 

She  was  inclined  to  believe  him;  duke  or  no  duke, 
he  was  certainly  interesting. 

The  love-affairs  of  Elizabeth  were  no  business  of 
his :  he  was  a  married  man.  None  the  less,  he  re- 
sented bitterly  the  existence  of  Henry.  He  scowled 
at  the  thought  of  him. 

"What's  the  matter?  Why  have  you  lost  your 
temper?"  she  said. 

"I  haven't  lost  my  temper,"  he  said  with  an  air  of 
great  dignity. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have!"  she  cried,  suddenly  gleeful. 
"And  I  believe  it's  about  Henry.  But  Henry  doesn't 
count.  He  doesn't,  really." 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  139 

She  went  on  to  describe  Henry  at  some  length ;  and 
it  grew  quite  plain  that  she  had  ruled  that  simple 
young  man  with  a  rod  of  iron.  He  understood  dimly, 
by  instinct,  that  such  a  man  would  never  really  take 
her  fancy,  that  she  would  be  only  happy  ruled,  not 
ruling.  The  jealous  oppression  cleared  from  his  heart, 
the  scowl  from  his  face. 

"Oh,  he's  like  that,  is  he?"  he  said  in  an  easy  tone 
when  she  came  to  the  end  of  her  description. 

He  leaned  back  against  the  bank,  silent  for  a  while, 
enjoying  the  cigar  and  the  beauty  of  Elizabeth. 

Then  he  said  abruptly:  "How  did  that  brute  Ed- 
ward insult  you  ?" 

At  first  she  refused  to  tell  him,  then  changed  her 
mind  and  said:  "Well,  you'll  be  thinking  it  ever  so 
much  worse  than  it  was,  if  I  don't.  It  was  last  Octo- 
ber, and  I  met  him  in  the  lane  which  runs  through  the 
home  wood,  and  he  walked  along  with  me.  Of  course, 
I'd  known  him  ever  since  I  was  a  child — a  little.  And 
then  he  grew  offensive  and  tried  to  kiss  me." 

"The  brute  wants  horse-whipping!"  cried  James 
Whitaker  in  a  fine  heat. 

The  jealousy  with  which  he  had  only  just  become 
acquainted  again  flamed  up  in  him,  more  furious.  The 
thought  of  that  hulking  brute  (he  saw  him  as  a  hulk- 
ing brute)  kissing  Elizabeth  set  his  blood  boiling. 

"Oh,  I  did  slap  him— hard !"  said  Elizabeth. 

"Slap  him?  I  wish  I'd  been  there  with  a  broom- 
handle  !"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

His  face  was  set  in  the  blackest  of  scowls. 


140  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

His  anger  pleased  her:  it  was  so  plainly  genuine; 
and  there  was  so  much  of  it.  Indeed,  she  thrilled  a 
little  to  the  savagery  of  his  tone. 

He  seemed  to  be  reflecting,  and  he  still  scowled. 
Then  he  burst  out : 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is:  if  anything  happened  to  me 
' — if  I  disappeared  or  anything — and  that  blackguard 
took  my  place,  you'd  marry  him." 

"I  shouldn't  do  anything  of  the  kind !"  cried  Eliza- 
beth, with  great  spirit. 

"Yes,  you  would — just  to  be  duchess,"  he  growled. 

"I  should  not!  Why,  you  were  bad  enough — but 
Lord  Edward  Beddard !  Oh,  he's  quite  impossible !  I 
shouldn't  dream  of  it,"  she  protested. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  would,"  he  growled  stubbornly. 

"I  should  not!"  she  cried  vehemently.  "You've  no 
business  to  say  such  a  thing !  It's — it's  an  insult !" 

She  sprang  to  her  feet. 

James  Whitaker  rose  more  slowly,  his  face  grim  and 
scowling.  He  was  not  going  to  retract  what  he  had 
said ;  he  was  convinced  that  it  was  true. 

She  started  along  the  bank  with  her  head  high  in  the 
air,  her  lips  curled,  and  her  nostrils  dilated  in  an  ex- 
pression of  offended  scorn.  James  Whitaker  walked 
beside  her,  his  face  one  contracted  scowl,  his  hands 
thrust  deep  in  his  pockets.  For  a  hundred  yards  they 
walked  in  silence.  Then  she  said  haughtily. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  apologize?" 

"No;  I'm  not.  It's  true,"  growled  James  Whitaker 
in  a  tone  of  ill-repressed  fury. 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  141 

"Very  well.  I  shan't  speak  to  you  till  you  do,"  she 
said  very  coldly. 

"Then  you  won't  speak  to  me  for  a  long  time,"  he 
said  fiercely ;  and  he  meant  it. 

They  parted  stiffly  at  the  bridge. 

James  Whitaker  walked  back  to  the  Abbey  in  a  tow- 
ering rage.  The  thought  of  Lord  Edward  Beddard's 
attempt  to  kiss  Elizabeth  was  infuriating,  but  the 
thought  that  after  his  return  to  his  Hammersmith  ob- 
scurity this  loathed  successor  would  at  his  ease  and 
leisure  prosecute  his  design  on  Elizabeth,  and  probably 
in  the  end  marry  her,  was  ten  times  more  infuriating. 
He  was  infinitely  more  jealous  of  his  successor,  who 
had  had  but  one  interview,  lasting  perhaps  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  with  her,  than  he  was  of  the  cousin  Henry 
who  had  been  so  intimate  with  her  all  his  life.  In- 
deed, his  natural  dislike  of  his  fortunate  successor  was 
beginning  to  grow  into  a  firm  detestation. 

He  came  to  lunch  fuming,  and  received  Jenkinson's 
account  of  the  inquest  on  his  predecessor's  body  with 
a  snappish  ill-temper  which  impressed  on  the  butler's 
plastic  mind  the  belief  that  that  inquest  was  the  last 
thing  in  the  world  of  interest  to  his  glowering  master. 

But  the  admirably  cooked  food,  and  the  bottle  of 
1868  Chateau  d'Yquem  he  drank  with  it,  slowly 
soothed  him  to  the  point  of  reflecting  with  an  almost 
dispassionate  calm  on  the  matter  of  leaving  Elizabeth 
to  his  detestable  successor.  It  had  by  now  grown 
quite  clear  to  him  that  they  would  marry.  Was  he 
justified  in  leaving  her  to  such  a  wretched  fate? 


CHAPTER  IX 

HE  had  time  and  to  spare  to  reflect  on  the  matter, 
for,  in  his  displeasure  with  Elizabeth  that  she 
should  be  willing  to  marry  such  an  offensive  black- 
guard as  he  felt  his  successor  to  be,  he  had  not  asked 
her  to  meet  him  that  afternoon.  During  the  hour 
after  lunch  he  told  himself  more  than  once  that  he  was 
not  sorry  that  he  was  not  meeting  such  a  mercenary 
creature.  None  the  less  he  found  presently  that  he 
was  not  enjoying  himself  among  the  treasures  of  the 
Lanchesters  with  that  fulness  which  a  man  on  a  holi- 
day expects.  His  eyes  would  leave  them  to  gaze  out 
of  the  windows  at  the  sunlight,  and  twice  he  found 
himself  at  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  gazing  down  over 
the  park  without  quite  knowing  why  he  had  come 
there.  The  pleasing  sight  of  Elizabeth  did  not  meet 
his  eyes. 

He  did  not  take  the  usual  pleasure  in  his  tea,  though 
the  cream  was  as  rich,  the  cakes  as  delicate  as  ever; 
the  cigar  he  smoked  after  it  lacked  something  of  its 
usual  flavor.  He  found  himself  suffering  from  a 
vague  dissatisfaction  with  life;  and  he  could  not  per- 
ceive the  cause  of  it. 

After  tea  he  went,  somewhat  listlessly,  into  the  yel- 
low drawing-room,  which  was  full  of  the  treasures  of 
the  East,  and  took  from  a  cabinet  a  tray  of  ivory  ne- 

142 


iWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  143 

tsuke.  He  was  examining  them  through  a  large  read- 
ing-glass, when  the  door  opened  softly.  Thinking  that 
it  was  Jenkinson,  or  a  footman,  come  for  instructions 
about  something,  he  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  gazed 
on  intently  at  the  figure  he  was  admiring.  Then  two 
soft  hands  were  laid  gently  over  his  eyes  and  a  voice 
whispered : 

"Guess  who  it  is." 

"Elizabeth,"  said  James  Whitaker  joyfully. 

The  hands  were  swiftly  lifted,  and  an  imperious 
voice  he  did  not  know  cried  in  accents  of  the  bitterest 
indignation : 

"Elizabeth!    Who  is  Elizabeth?" 

He  turned  his  head  sharply  to  see  a  very  pretty 
black-eyed,  black-haired  woman,  with  a  fine  color  in 
her  clear-skinned  cheeks,  glaring  down  on  him  with 
an  air  as  indignant  as  her  tone. 

"Who  is  Elizabeth  ?"  she  cried  again. 

He  gazed  at  her  in  a  blank  astonishment,  remem- 
bered himself,  and  growled  huskily:  "Who  are  you? 
I'm  hanged  if  I  haven't  forgotten!" 

The  lady's  expression  changed  swiftly  from  extreme 
anger  to  extreme  dismay.  She  stared  at  him  with  in- 
credulous eyes;  her  face  fell;  the  corners  of  her  lips 
drooped ;  and  she  cried  in  a  lamentable  voice : 

"What?    You've  forgotten  your  Emily?" 

James  Whitaker  gazed  at  her  with  knitted  brow, 
collecting  all  his  wits  to  meet  the  emergency.  The 
lady  was  of  the  same  type  as  Elizabeth,  but  not  so 
good  an  example  of  it.  She  was  a  little  shorter  and  a 
little  plumper,  but  yet  of  a  good  figure.  Also  she  was 


144  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

older.  But  even  in  that  hurried,  harassed  scrutiny  he 
found  her  far  more  attractive  than  Lady  Cubbington. 
And  she  was  his,  or  rather  his  predecessor's  Emily. 

He  said  slowly,  scowling  as  if  in  a  struggle  with  his 
memory : 

"Emily  —  Emily  ...  I  know  the  name  .  .  . 
wait  a  minute.  .  .  .  I'm  beginning  to  remember — 

"But  it's  horrible  your  forgetting  me  like  this !  Per- 
fectly horrible !"  wailed  the  lady. 

"It  isn't  me ;  it's  the  lightning,"  he  protested. 

"That  doesn't  make  it  any  less  horrible !"  she  cried. 

With  that  she  burst  into  tears,  sank  down  on  to  his 
knee,  threw  her  right  arm  around  his  neck  and  kissed 
him. 

"I-I-I-I — t-t-t-thought — you  1-1-1-loved — m-m-me !" 
she  sobbed. 

The  suddenness  of  her  disturbing  action  took  James 
Whitaker  utterly  aback.  He  put  his  left  arm  around 
her;  but  that  was  a  wholly  instinctive  action.  He 
could  not  find  words;  that  required  an  effort  of  will. 

He  was  wondering  whether  his  safety  did  not  de- 
mand that  he  should  kiss  her,  when  she  gave  a  little 
sniff  and  drew  away  so  that  he  could  see  her  face; 
and  he  saw  a  faint  bewilderment  gather  on  it.  Then 
she  drew  back  to  the  length  of  her  arm  and  stared  into 
his  face  with  all  her  eyes,  her  bewilderment  plainly 
growing  and  growing. 

"Why  .  .  .  why  .  .  .  What  is  it?"  she  said 
faintly. 

"What's  what?"  he  said  in  a  sudden  disquiet. 

"Why,    you    .    .    .    you!"    she    said,    drawing    yet 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  145 

farther  away.  "Why  .  .  .  why  ...  it  isn't 
you!  You're  not  .  .  .  no ;  you're  not  the  duke !" 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  her  eyes  blazed  at  him. 

Relieved  of  her  immediate  oppressive  nearness,  he 
felt  much  better  able  to  grapple  with  the  situation. 

"It's  that  confounded  lightning,"  he  growled  husk- 
ily. "I  can't  make  out  what  it's  done  to  me  exactly. 
It's  destroyed  my  memory.  .  .  .  It's  stiffened  my 
throat  muscles  so  that  I  can  hardly  speak.  .  .  .  It's 
half  paralyzed  my  right  arm.  But  it's  done  something 
besides  all  that,  and  I  can't  make  out  what.  But  I'm 
not  the  same  person — there's  no  doubt  about  it." 

"The  lightning?  Yes;  I  read  about  the  lightning  in 
the  papers,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  that  confounded  electricity,"  he  growled. 

She  seemed  to  hesitate,  came  a  step  nearer,  and 
peered  earnestly  into  his  face.  He  met  her  searching 
gaze  with  steady  unconcerned  eyes. 

"You  look  like  the  duke,  and  you  speak  like  the 
duke — exactly,"  she  said  in  a  doubtful  voice.  "But 
I  feel  that  you're  not  the  duke.  I  feel  that  your  face 
of  the  duke  is  a  mask  hiding  some  one  else.  Besides, 
you  smell  so  different." 

"And  so  would  you,  if  you'd  been  struck  by  light- 
ning !  It  would  make  any  one  smell  different — a  regu- 
lar bath  of  electricity!"  he  growled. 

"Of  course  there  is  the  electricity,"  she  said  in  a 
shaken  tone,  and  her  eyes  fell  before  his  steady  gaze. 

"The  wonder  is  it  left  anything  to  smell  at  all,"  he 
growled. 

Her  expression  was  again  mere  bewilderment. 


146  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

Then  once  more  her  eyes  flashed,  and  she  cried 
fiercely:  "No,  I  don't  believe  it.  If  you  were  the 
duke,  you'd  never  have  forgotten  me — never !" 

"Why,  it  made  me  forget  my  own  name — my  Chris- 
tian name,"  he  growled. 

"I  don't  care!  I  don't  believe  it!  I  don't  believe 
you  are  the  duke !"  she  cried,  yet  more  fiercely. 

James  Whitaker  gazed  at  her,  cudgeling  his  brains 
for  some  way  of  convincing  her  that  he  was  the  duke. 
He  could  find  none.  Then  her  chin  caught  his  eye. 

"All  right,"  he  growled.  "Have  it  your  own  way. 
You  always  were  as  obstinate  as  a  mule." 

"Obstinate?  Me  obstinate?  Well,  you're  the  last 
person  in  the  world  to  say  that!"  she  cried  a  little 
breathlessly. 

"Well,  but  you  are.  You  know,  if  you  get  a  thing 
into  your  head,  you  won't  let  any  one  get  it  out.  I 
almost  remember  telling  you  so." 

Her  face  cleared  a  little,  and  she  said :  "Well,  you 
did  say  something  of  the  sort — once." 

"Only  once — get  out !"  he  growled.  "I'm  beginning 
to  remember." 

He  wished  he  had  taken  the  pains  to  read  the  bundle 
of  her  letters  which  were,  doubtless,  in  the  bureau 
drawer. 

"It's  most  extraordinary,"  she  murmured ;  and  her 
face  cleared  yet  more. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  he  growled  impatiently.  "Very 
few  people  get  struck  by  lightning." 

"I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  it's  extraordinary  it  has 
changed  you  so — so  that  you  even  smell  different." 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  147 

"Oh,  that's  your  fancy,"  he  growled. 

"It's  nothing  of  the  kind !  You  do  smell  different !" 
she  cried. 

"So  would  you,  I  tell  you,  if  you'd  had  a  bath  of 
electricity.  I'm  sure  I  smell  all  right." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  say  you  didn't,"  she  said  quickly. 

He  was  relieved :  plainly  he  had  banished  most  of 
her  doubt.  But  he  was  eager  to  banish  all  of  it;  he 
wished  her  to  tell  no  one  of  it.  If  only  he  had  read 
her  letters  he  could  have  clenched  his  assertion  that  he 
was  the  duke  by  the  display  of  some  impressive  piece 
of  knowledge  of  her.  He  cudgeled  his  brains  for 
some  method  of  clenching  it  without  that  special 
knowledge.  He  wondered  how  his  predecessor  treated 
her.  Then  he  had  a  happy  thought :  she  was  undoubt- 
edly attractive — very  attractive :  suppose  he  let  him- 
self go.  Perhaps  he  would  be  most  like  the  duke  if 
he  did  let  himself  go. 

He  suddenly  grabbed  her,  pulled  her  down  on  to 
his  knee,  hugged  her  tightly  and  kissed  her  with  the 
vehemence  Lady  Cubbington  had  demanded  of  him. 

He  seemed  to  have  discovered  by  instinct  the  course 
of  action  his  predecessor  would  have  pursued,  for  she 
did  not  try  to  struggle  out  of  his  arms ;  she  only  said 
somewhat  breathlessly : 

"The  electricity  has  left  you  just  as  rough  as 
ever." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  growled ;  and  he  kissed  her 
again. 

"And  you  certainly  haven't  forgotten  how  to  kiss," 
she  said  in  a  tone  of  some  satisfaction. 


148  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Oh,  I'm  beginning  to  remember  all  right,"  he 
growled  cheerfully. 

He  felt  that  he  had  swept  away  the  last  of  her  sus- 
picions; and  his  mind  was  at  ease,  even  though  the 
process  of  ridding  her  of  them  had  brought  him  into 
a  position  which  accorded  ill  with  the  fact  that  he  was 
a  respectable  married  man.  It  was  at  the  moment 
quite  clear  to  him  that  the  preservation  of  his  secret 
was  of  far  greater  importance  than  a  pedantic  pro- 
priety of  marital  attitude. 

The  lady  shifted  her  position  a  little,  and  said  plain- 
tively: "But  how  could  you  forget  me  at  all?" 

"It  wasn't  me.  It  was  the  lightning,"  he  said 
quickly :  and  instinctively  he  kissed  her  again. 

He  observed  that  it  seemed  far  more  natural  to  him 
to  kiss  her  than  it  had  been  to  kiss  Lady  Cubbington. 
He  wondered  whether  this  were  the  result  of  practise, 
or  of  the  fact  that  he  found  her  more  attractive  than 
Lady  Cubbington. 

"But  if  you  really  cared  for  me  it  couldn't  have 
done  anything  of  the  kind." 

"Oh,  come:  it  made  you  think  that  I  wasn't  my- 
self!" he  cried. 

She  sniffed  once  or  twice  and  knitted  her  brow  with 
a  faintly  troubled  air.  He  hoped  that  her  suspicions 
were  not  going  to  revive. 

"The  fact  is,  it  dropped  a  veil  between  us,"  he  said 
hastily,  to  divert  her  attention  from  the  change  in  him. 

"I  know  what  it  really  is,"  she  cried ;  and  her  eyes 
were  suddenly  sparkling  brightly.  "It's  that  horrid 
Cubbington  woman.  You've  been  seeing  a  lot  of  her." 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  149 

"She  had  nothing  to  do  with  it — nothing  whatever," 
he  said  hastily 

'Then  you  have  been  seeing  a  lot  of  her." 

"No,  no :  just  at  lunch  once  and  an  evening  at  bac- 
carat," he  said;  and  instinctively  he  kissed  her  again. 

"Don't  do  that!  You've  been  kissing  her!"  she 
cried. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  growled  without  pausing 
to  reflect  upon  the  truth  of  the  assertion. 

"As  if  I'm  likely  to  believe  that!  She  dragged  you 
into  a  corner  and  made  you." 

"She  did  nothing  of  the  kind !  I  wouldn't  allow  it !" 
he  cried  with  some  heat. 

"It  wouldn't  matter  what  you  allowed  with  a  hor- 
rible woman  like  that.  You're  just  wax  in  her  hands." 

"I'm  nothing  of  the  kind!"  he  growled  with  yet 
greater  heat. 

"You  are,"  she  said  firmly.  "Why,  she  told  Maria 
Addenbroke  that  you're  going  to  marry  her  when 
Cubbington  dies;  and  Maria  would  hardly  believe  me 
when  I  told  her  that  it's  me  you're  going  to  marry  if 
anything  happens  to  Harry  in  Central  Africa." 

James  Whitaker  felt  somewhat  chilled:  he  wished 
he  knew  who  the  lady  was;  he  wished  he  knew  who 
Harry  was;  and,  above  all,  he  wished  that  his  prede- 
cessor had  not  made  this  exceedingly  dubious  arrange- 
ment with  different  ladies.  It  must  have  been  a  tic. 

"Of  course  there  was  some  arrangement,"  he  said 
feebly. 

"Some  arrangement!  Is  that  how  you  speak  about 
it?"  she  cried,  and  made  as  if  to  rise. 


150 

It  was  rather  James  Whitaker's  arm  than  James 
Whitaker's  will  which  retained  her  on  his  knee.  His 
subconscious  self  seemed  to  find  something  pleasing 
and  harmonious  in  an  attitude  of  which  his  conscious 
self  could  but  deplore  the  necessity. 

She  yielded  to  the  instinctive,  retaining  pressure. 

"It's  the  lightning,"  he  growled. 

"But  it's  me  you  really  care  for,  dear?"  she  said 
softly. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  he  said  firmly;  and  once  more, 
instinctively,  he  kissed  her. 

"That  lightning  has  made  one  good  change  in  you," 
she  said  in  a  tone  of  gratification.  "Your  kisses  aren't 
so — so  grudging." 

He  was  pleased  by  this  compliment.  Then  he  re- 
membered that  he  had  earned  it  by  following  the  in- 
junctions of  Lady  Cubbington.  It  seemed  to  him  odd 
that  he  should  not  have  learned  from  Millicent  how  to 
kiss  properly ;  but  on  further  reflection  it  did  not  seem 
odd  to  him:  Millicent  had  been  more  interested  in 
culture.  He  kissed  Emily  twice  firmly.  It  seemed  to 
him  the  least  he  could  do. 

She  seemed  to  have  relaxed  from  her  tense  jealousy, 
and  was  nestling  against  him  in  a  peaceful  satisfaction. 
He,  too,  was  content  to  be  silent ;  and  at  last  enjoyed 
a  breathing-space  in  which  to  grasp  his  exact  position. 
He  was  undoubtedly  nursing  a  lady,  probably  a  lady 
of  title ;  and  he  was  not  revolted,  or  even  embarrassed, 
by  the  action.  He  found  that,  owing  to  some  odd 
kink  in  his  mind,  of  which  he  had  hitherto  been  quite 
unaware,  it  was  her  prettiness  which  made  it  thus  easy 


LWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  151 

for  him.  He  felt  that  had  she  been  unattractive  he 
would  have  found  it  quite  awkward  and  unpleasant. 
He  was  surprised  to  find  himself  more  than  once 
vaguely  regretting  that  it  was  not  Elizabeth  Carton 
he  held  upon  his  knee.  But  he  was  compelled  to  admit 
that  Emily  was  a  fair  substitute.  He  kissed  her 
thoughtfully. 

With  an  arm  round  his  neck  she  gabbled  to  him 
fondly.  Also  she  spoke  now  and  again  of  Harry  with 
genuine  affection;  and  he  gathered  that  he  was  her 
husband,  and  engaged  in  hunting  big  game  in  Central 
Africa.  This  affection  seemed  the  stranger  to  him 
that  she  had  definitely  arranged  to  marry  the  late 
duke,  should  a  lion  or  some  other  of  the  African  fauna 
devour  Harry. 

She  talked  of  the  arrangement,  however,  with  a 
natural,  unaffected  simplicity  quite  irreconcilable  with 
any  sense  of  moral  depravity;  and  it  was  plain  that 
his  predecessor  had  regarded  it  with  a  like  simplicity. 
James  Whitaker  began  to  suspect  that  his  own  Ham- 
mersmith attitude  to  conjugal  responsibility  might  be 
at  fault.  After  all,  now  that  he  came  to  think  of  it, 
he  had  taken  his  views  on  marriage  second-hand  from 
his  cultured  wife;  and  Millicent  was  strongly  feminist. 
Plainly  in  this  higher  sphere  quite  other  conceptions 
obtained.  Perhaps  he  ought  to  reconsider  the  matter 
carefully. 

He  kept  wishing  he  knew  a  little  more  about  the 
lady;  it  was  hardly  safe  to  leave  their  intercourse  a 
monologue.  After  a  while  his  chance  came.  The 


152  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

afternoon  was  hot;  the  lady  was  plump;  she  moved 
into  an  armchair;  and  said  that  she  had  left  her  fan 
with  her  dust-coat.  He  rose  and  hurried  out  into  the 
hall  to  fetch  it. 

There  he  found  Jenkinson,  and  said  with  great 
asperity:  "Why  on  earth  don't  you  show  people  in 
properly — yourself  ?  Why  do  you  let  them  come  dash- 
ing in  on  me  just  anyhow?" 

"B-b-but  Lady  M-M-Middlemore  always  d-d-does," 
stammered  Jenkinson. 

"Well,  see  that  she  doesn't — not,  at  least,  when  my 
nerves  are  all  upset  by  being  struck  by  lightning.  Where 
does  she  come  from?" 

"Yes,  your  Grace.  London,  your  Grace.  She  came 
in  a  taxi  from  Lanchester." 

"Then  bring  her  in  some  tea.  Why  haven't  you  done 
it?" 

"Your  Grace  has  forgotten  that  her  ladyship  likes 
grapes  and  benedictine  at  this  time,  your  Grace,"  said 
Jenkinson,  waving  his  hand  toward  a  silver  tray  on 
which  they  were. 

"Well,  why  haven't  you  brought  them  in  to  her?" 
cried  James  Whitaker. 

Jenkinson  coughed  a  faint  distressed  cough,  and 
said:  "But  your  Grace  has  forgotten.  Your  Grace 
has  given  instructions — more  than  once — that  I  am  not 
to  bring  tea  till  you  ring  for  it." 

"Oh,  bring  in  those  grapes!  And  a  fan,  too!" 
growled  James  Whitaker. 

He  went  back  into  the  drawing-room;  and  in  two 
minutes  Jenkinson  brought  the  grapes,  the  benedictine 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  15*5 

and  the  fan.  James  Whitaker,  as  politeness  bade,  ate 
grapes  and  drank  a  glass  of  the  liqueur  with  sufficient 
pleasure.  When  she  was  lighting  a  cigarette  after 
them  he  said : 

"When's  Middlemore  coming  home?" 

"Oh,  you  are  beginning  to  remember!"  she  cried. 
"I  didn't  think  you  remembered  my  name!" 

"I  never  forgot  it,"  said  James  Whitaker  firmly. 

They  talked  about  her  husband  for  a  while ;  and  he 
learned  several  facts  which  might  prove  useful.  Then 
she  suggested  that  they  should  go  tip  to  his  smoking- 
room,  since  it  would  be  cooler.  He  was  on  the  point 
of  accepting  the  suggestion  when  it  occurred  to  him 
that  his  suite  of  rooms  was  so  very  private  and  com- 
promising, and  that  after  all  he  was  a  married  man. 
He  said  hastily  that  the  garden  would  be  cooler  still; 
and  though  she  pouted  and  protested  that  she  hated 
gardens,  into  the  garden  they  went.  They  strolled 
about  it;  and  he  gathered  that  she  knew  it  well,  for 
at  frequent  intervals  he  found  that  they  had  come  into 
a  retired  nook.  It  was  quite  plain  to  him  on  each  oc- 
casion that  she  expected  him  to  be  tender ;  and  he  felt 
that  his  predecessor  had  committed  him  to  tenderness. 
However,  he  found  it  less  and  less  difficult  on  each 
fresh  occasion. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  a  faint  dissatisfaction  in  her 
air  and  in  her  voice;  and  he  wondered  whether  his 
tenderness,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  doing  his 
best,  lacked  genuine  conviction.  Suddenly,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  makes  a  thrilling  discovery,  she  cried : 

"I  know  what  it  is !    It's  Elizabeth !" 


i54  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"What's  Elizabeth  ?"  he  said,  somewhat  startled. 

"It's  Elizabeth  who's  changed  you  so.  I  thought 
it  was  that  Cubbington  woman."' 

"It  isn't  Elizabeth.  It's  the  lightning,"  he  pro- 
tested. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is.    Who  is  Elizabeth?"  she  said  firmly. 

He  hesitated  long  enough  to  perceive  clearly  that  he 
must  by  no  means  make  an  admission  about  Miss  Car- 
ton; that  his  predecessor's  general  behavior  did  not 
allow  of  it. 

"There  isn't  any  Elizabeth,"  he  said  firmly. 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is!"  she  cried.  "When  I  put  my 
hands  over  your  eyes  you  said  it  was  Elizabeth." 

"It  was  the  first  name  which  came  into  my  head. 
I  only  said  it  to  score  off  you." 

His  husky  growl  imparted  a  certain  air  of  veri- 
similitude to  the  statement;  uttered  in  an  ordinary 
voice,  she  would  have  rejected  it  on  the  instant. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said  in  a  tone  which  lacked 
conviction. 

"All  right :  don't,"  he  said,  and  laughed. 

"Oh,  you  are  aggravating!"  she  cried. 

"That's  what  you're  always  saying,"  he  growled,  at 
a  venture. 

"Never  mind !    I  shall  find  out !"  she  cried  angrily. 

She  was  really  angry;  and  it  was  some  time  before 
he  soothed  her.  But  he  learned  that  it  had  been  the 
habit  of  the  late  duke  to  enrage  her  at  least  once  every 
time  they  met;  and  he  was  glad  that  he  had  instinc- 
tively done  the  same  thing.  Certainly  his  attitude  and 
manners  had  convinced  her  that  he  was  the  duke ;  she 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  155 

no  longer  attached  any  credit  to  the  suggestion  of  her 
nostrils. 

When  her  anger  had  abated  they  talked  peacefully 
about  their  common  friends;  or,  rather,  to  be  exact, 
she  talked,  and  he  confined  himself  to  monosyllabic 
comment  on  what  she  said.  He  was  patiently  acquir- 
ing more  facts,  when  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  was 
acquiring  far  more  than  he  could  possibly  need  be- 
tween now  and  the  morning  of  the  next  Wednesday. 
None  the  less  he  did  not  relax  his  attention. 

At  seven  o'clock  she  said  that  she  must  be  going. 
He  pressed  her  to  stay  to  dinner  with  him.  Since  it 
was  unlikely  that  he  would  see  the  indignant  Elizabeth 
that  evening,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  society  of  Lady 
Middlemore  would  be  the  next  most  pleasant  thing 
within  his  reach.  But  she  declared  that  she  must  catch 
the  seven-thirty-five  train  from  Lanchester  to  London, 
that  all  her  arrangements  compelled  her  to  be  in  town 
by  nine.  He  let  her  go  reluctantly. 

As  he  watched,  regretfully,  the  cab  disappear 
through  the  distant  gates  of  the  park,  he  suddenly 
realized  that  he  was  beginning  to  feel  uncommonly 
like  an  unmarried  man.  He  could  not  decide  whether 
it  was  owing  to  the  fact  that  a  veil,  or  rather  a  series 
of  veils,  was  falling  between  him  and  the  old  life  at 
Hammersmith,  and  that  Millicent  seemed  very  far 
away,  or  whether  it  was  a  case  of  evil  communications 
corrupting  good  manners.  Whichever  of  the  two  it 
might  be,  it  was  quite  clear  that  if  the  deplorable  con- 
duct of  the  late  duke  forced  him  into  contact  with 
many  more  ladies  whom  the  necessity  of  self-preserva- 


156  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

tion  compelled  him  to  treat  with  the  tenderness  he  had 
lavished  on  Lady  Cubbington  and  Lady  Middlemore, 
his  domesticated  nature  would  become  a  thing  of  the 
past. 

He  came  into  the  Abbey  great  hall  rather  sadly,  for 
he  would  have  enjoyed  Lady  Middlemore's  society  at 
dinner.  But  without  it  he  enjoyed  that  meal  far  more 
than  he  had  enjoyed  his  tea,  for  in  some  way  she  had 
blunted  for  the  time  being  his  desire  for  the  society 
of  Elizabeth.  After  dinner  he  found  that  the  flavor 
of  his  cigar  had  regained  its  delicate  excellence. 

But  he  had  smoked  barely  an  inch  of  it  when  the 
desire  for  the  society  of  Elizabeth  returned  in  all  its 
strength. 

It  wanted  but  a  few  minutes  to  nine,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  might  very  well  go  down  to  the  bridge 
to  see  whether  she  had  by  any  chance  come  to  it.  He 
felt  it  to  be  very  unlikely  that  she  had  come,  but  he 
felt  that  he  must  make  sure. 

She  was  not  at  the  bridge,  and  he  sat  on  the  parapet 
for  a  while  smoking.  Then  he  thought  that  she  might 
have  come  in  the  direction  of  the  bridge  without  caring 
to  come  right  to  it,  and  he  took  the  path  along  the 
farther  bank  of  the  stream  to  the  village.  He  had 
not  gone  very  far  along  it  when  he  saw  a  white  gown 
at  the  next  stile,  and  he  was  surprised  by  the  way  his 
heart  leaped  at  the  sight,  and  even  more  surprised  by 
the  intensity  of  his  disappointment  when  he  found  that 
the  gown  contained  a  village  girl.  He  walked  on, 
rather  more  briskly,  to  the  end  of  the  field-path,  and 
from  it  looked  down  the  empty  street  to  the  village. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  157 

He  sat  on  the  stile  for  a  while,  waiting  to  see  if  Eliz- 
abeth would  appear.  When  she  did  not  he  walked 
down  the  street.  There  were  still  a  few  of  the  vil- 
lagers sitting  about  the  doors  of  their  cottages,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  there  was  little  cordiality  in  the 
civil  greetings  they  gave  him  as  he  passed.  Again 
he  regretted  that  he  would  not  be  long  enough  at  the 
Abbey  to  change  their  feeling  about  him.  Beyond 
the  village  stands  the  church,  and  beyond  the  church 
the  vicarage.  He  was  walking  very  quietly  in  his 
pumps,  and  when  he  came  to  the  hedge  of  the  vicarage 
garden  he  peered  through  it.  His  heart  leaped  again  at 
the  sight  of  Elizabeth  sitting  in  a  garden-chair  under 
a  tree  in  the  middle  of  the  lawn.  He  came  through 
the  garden  gate  very  quietly,  and  since  she  seemed 
buried  in  a  reverie  she  did  not  see  him  until  he  was 
within  a  few  feet  of  her.  When  she  did  see  him,  she 
started  to  her  feet  with  a  faint  cry  of  surprise  and 
dismay. 

"Why  ever  have  you  come  here?"  she  cried. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  come  here?"  he  said  calmly.  "If 
we're  going  to  get  to  know  each  other  thoroughly, 
with  a  view  to  being  married,  I  ought  to  see  you 
in  your  own  home." 

"But  my  father:  he  won't  believe — he'll  be  awfully 
upset  if  he  finds  that  I  know  you — like  this.  I  wasn't 
going  to  tell  him  anything  about  it  till  everything  was 
settled.  You  know  what  a  bad  character  you've  got." 

"No,  I  don't.  I've  forgotten.  And  anyhow,  that 
lightning-stroke  has  changed  it  altogether.  It  must 
have." 


158  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"But  my  father  doesn't  know  that.  He'll  be  per- 
fectly horrified  to  find  you  here  with  me." 

"Well,  I  can't  help  that.  I  had  to  come.  We  never 
fixed  up  a  meeting  this  evening  when  we  said  good-by 
to-day." 

"As  if  I'd  come  after  what  you  said!"  she  cried. 

"Well,  that  was  exactly  what  I  wanted  to  see  you 
about,"  he  said  quickly.  "I  realized  after  you  had 
gone  that  you  believed  I  was  really  in  earnest  about 
Edward.  Of  course  I  was  only  joking.  You'd  no 
more  dream  of  marrying  Edward  than  I  would  of  im- 
personating the  Duke  of  Lanchester." 

She  looked  at  him  with  somewhat  mollified  eyes, 
and  said  grudgingly :  "Well,  I  think  that's  a  silly  kind 
of  joke." 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  he  said. 

"Besides,  I  don't  know  that  you're  not  impersonat- 
ing the  Duke  of  Lanchester." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do— in  the  bottom  of  your  heart," 
he  said  firmly. 

"I  don't,"  she  said.  "But  now  that  you've  apolo- 
gized we  might  get  out  of  this  garden  before  my 
father,  or  some  villager,  sees  us.  People  wouldn't 
understand.  And  suppose  after  all  we  didn't — didn't 
fix  things  up,  they  would  gossip  and  gossip." 

"Oh,  we  shall  fix  things  up  all  right,"  he  said  cheer- 
fully. "But  there's  no  point  in  your  running  any  un- 
necessary risk.  Where  shall  we  go?" 

She  led  the  way  across  the  lawn  to  a  little  gate  open- 
ing into  the  churchyard,  crossed  it  to  a  gate  on  its 
farther  side,  went  through  it  and  up  a  path  through 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  159 

a  thicket.  From  the  end  of  the  thicket  he  saw,  about 
a  mile  away,  the  back  of  the  Abbey;  and  five  minutes' 
walk  brought  them  into  the  park.  They  turned  up  the 
side  of  it,  under  the  trees. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  to  the  bridge  at  nine  as 
usual?  We  might  have  had  ever  so  much  more  time 
together,"  he  said  in  a  reproachful  tone. 

"It  was  likely  I  should  come !  After  what  you  said ! 
And  when  you'd  been  spending  all  the  afternoon  with 
Lady  Middlemore!"  cried  Elizabeth. 

"Oh,  come:  it  wasn't  all  the  afternoon.  She  didn't 
come  till  after  tea,"  he  protested. 

"I  expect  you  thought  I  shouldn't  know  anything 
about  it,  because  she  came  in  a  taxicab." 

"I  never  thought  about  it,"  he  said. 

"No,  you  wouldn't !  You  were  so  taken  up  with  her 
that  you  couldn't  think  of  anything  else,"  she  said 
almost  fiercely ;  and  he  was  surprised  by  the  flame  of 
anger  in  her  eyes. 

He  was  taken  aback  by  this  sudden  vehemence. 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  taken  up  with  her  so  much  as  that." 

"You  ought  to  be  perfectly  ashamed  of  yourself! 
You  know  you  ought !"  she  cried. 

"What  about  ?"  he  said,  even  more  taken  aback. 

"You  know  quite  well !" 

"I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do!"  he  said  with  conviction. 

"You  know  you've  no  business  to  be  spending  the 
whole  afternoon  with  that  woman  when  you're  en- 
gaged to  me!" 

"This  is  rather  sudden,"  he  said  faintly.  "Do  you 
mean  to  say  you've  fallen  in  love  with  me  already?" 


160  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Certainly  not!"  she  cried. 

"I  thought  you  couldn't  have — so  soon." 

"I  should  think  not!" 

"Then  why  are  you  so  annoyed  by  my  spending  an 
hour  or  two  with  Lady  Middlemore?" 

"I — I — I'm  not  annoyed.  ...  It  isn't  that. 
.  .  .  I  don't  care  about  Lady  Middlemore.  .  .  r.i 
It  isn't  that  that  annoys  me.  .  .  .  But  what's 
the  use  of  our  trying  to  get  to  like  each  other  if 
you  spend  all  your  time  with  other  women?"  said 
Elizabeth  in  an  explanatory  tone. 

"But  I  don't,"  said  the  obtuse  James  Whitaker.  "I 
spend  most  of  it  with  you." 

Elizabeth  was  too  young  and  beautiful  to  snort.  The 
noise  she  made  could  only  have  been  described  as  a 
snort  had  it  come  from  an  older  and  less  beautiful 
woman. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  while.  James  Whit- 
aker gazed  at  her  with  puzzled  interest.  He  had  gath- 
ered both  from  his  reading  and  from  his  intercourse 
with  old  Amy  that  women  were  not  logical  creatures; 
but  he  wished  that  he  could  grasp  Elizabeth's  exact 
point  of  view. 

At  last  he  said  sapiently:  "Look  here:  if  you 
weren't  really  annoyed  about  Lady  Middlemore  you 
wouldn't  be  so  jealous." 

"Jealous!     ...     Of    that    woman? 
About  you?"  gasped  Elizabeth. 

"Well,  it  must  be  jealousy,"  he  said  in  a  patiently 
instructive  tone.  "You  wouldn't  be  so  angry  if  it 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  161 

weren't.  And  I  tell  you  what:  if  you're  as  jealous  as 
this,  you  must  be  beginning  to  fall  in  love  with  me." 

The  laugh  of  Elizabeth  was  more  like  the  snarl  of 
an  exceedingly  angry  wolf  than  any  human  sound. 
She  ground  her  teeth;  her  face  was  flushed;  her  eyes 
were  shining  very  brightly. 

"In  love  with  you?"  she  said  in  an  indescribable 
tone. 

"Perhaps  you're  not  conscious  of  it — yet.  But  that's 
what  it  must  be,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  illumination. 

Elizabeth  said  nothing ;  she  turned  on  her  heel,  and 
began  to  retrace  her  steps  briskly.  She  was  panting 
a  little. 

He  perceived  that  he  had  said  enough  for  the  time 
being,  and  though  he  wished  that  he  had  not  failed 
to  grasp  her  exact  attitude,  his  instinct  assured  him 
that  this  was  not  the  time  to  continue  his  researches. 
He  let  her  go  some  distance  in  silence;  then  he  began 
to  talk  tactfully  of  the  beauty  of  the  moonlit  park. 

Her  anger  was  fierce,  but  short-lived.  Presently  she 
was  listening  to  him ;  then  she  glanced  at  him  several 
times  with  cold  suspicion. 

Then  she  said :  "I'm  sure  you  must  have  found 
Lady  Middlemore's  conversation  a  great  deal  more  in- 
teresting than  this.  You  had  so  much  more  to  talk 
about." 

"You've  forgotten  that  it  must  have  been  the  first 
time  I  met  her,"  he  said. 

"But  it  wasn't  the  first  time  she'd  met  you,"  she 
said  quickly. 


1 62  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Apparently  not." 

"And  didn't  she  recognize  that  you  weren't  the 
duke?" 

"She  was  convinced  that  I  was." 

Elizabeth's  eyes  began  to  gleam  again. 

"And  did  she — did  she  talk  to  you  exactly  as  if 
you  were  the  duke?" 

"I  couldn't  see  any  difference,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"Then  it's  perfectly  disgusting;  and  you  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourself !"  she  cried. 

"Well,  I  couldn't  be  rude,  could  I?" 

"And  did  she — did  she — oh,  how  are  we  to  get  to 
like  each  other  if  this  kind  of  thing  goes  on?"  she 
almost  wailed. 

"What  kind  of  thing?"  he  said  disingenuously. 

"You  know  perfectly  well!" 

"Well,  if  you  mean  ladies  calling  on  me,  I  sup- 
pose they  will.  They  do  call  on  dukes,"  he  said. 

She  walked  on  in  silence  to  the  entrance  of  the 
path  through  the  thicket. 

At  the  stile  she  stopped  and  bade  him  come  no 
farther. 

"Very  well.  But  will  you  meet  me  at  the  bridge 
at  eleven  to-morrow?  By  to-morrow  you'll  see  that 
it's  all  nonsense  about  Lady  Middlemore,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  very  doubtfully,  shook  her  head 
and  said:  "I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  I  shall.  I 
don't  want  to." 

"You  ought  to,  you  know,"  he  said. 

"I  know  one  thing,"  she  said  quickly.     "When  we 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  163 

— if  we  ever  do — arrange  things  I  won't  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  this  Smart  Set — so  there!     There 
must  be  other  sets  for  duchesses.     Good  night." 
She  went  quickly,  without  shaking  hands  with  him. 


CHAPTER  X 

JAMES  WHITAKER  walked  slowly  to  the  Abbey, 
pondering  those  two  illuminating  words  "Smart 
Set."  They  made  so  much  that  had  puzzled  him  clear. 
He  had  read  much  about  it  in  the  evening  pa- 
pers; and  naturally,  as  a  member  of  that  set,  the 
late  duke  would  make  arrangements  to  marry  various 
ladies  (he  wondered  for  a  moment  how  many  more 
there  were  of  them)  should  their  husbands  expire.  It 
'did  not  occur  to  him  that  this  was  purely  a  personal 
idiosyncrasy.  Naturally,  too,  the  late  duke  had  been 
careless  of  his  rank,  his  name,  his  family  and  his  re- 
sponsibilities ;  he  had  only  valued  them  for  the  money 
and  pleasures  they  brought  him.  Naturally,  the  in- 
habitants of  Little  Lanchester  disliked  their  scorching, 
grasping  lord. 

But  he  was  surprised  that  a  duke  should  belong  to 
the  Smart  Set.  He  had  had  a  dim  idea  that  it  was 
composed  only  of  inferior  noblemen,  American  mill- 
ionaires, and  other  rich  tradesmen;  he  had  thought 
that  dukes  were  above  it. 

He  was  in  full  sympathy  with  Elizabeth;  and  un- 
doubtedly there  must  be  another  set  for  duchesses, 
and  for  dukes  too.  Had  he  been  going  to  remain  a 
duke,  he  would  certainly  make  haste  to  withdraw  from 

164 


LWHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  165 

his  predecessor's  circle  of  friends  into  an  atmosphere 
more  congenial  to  his  once  so  domesticated  nature. 
As  it  was,  he  might  as  well  make  the  best  of  them  till 
the  evening  of  the  next  Tuesday,  using  them  to  make 
his  holiday  as  pleasant  as  possible. 

At  breakfast  next  morning  he  was  annoyed  by  the 
long  accounts,  in  the  London  papers,  of  the  inquest  on 
his  predecessor.  The  coincidence  of  a  duke  and  a 
tramp  having  been  struck  by  lightning  at  the  same 
time  in  the  same  wood  was  the  kind  of  fare  for  which 
their  readers  were  greediest;  and  they  had  made  as 
much  of  it  as  possible.  James  Whitaker  felt  their  in- 
sistence on  the  coincidence  to  be  dangerous.  It  made 
him  the  more  eager  to  return  to  his  obscurity  before 
Lord  Edward  Beddard  should  come  to  the  Abbey. 

It  was  this  eagerness  which  despatched  him  directly 
after  breakfast  to  Mr.  Brinkman's  office  to  inquire 
what  progress  had  been  made  in  the  preparation  of  the 
plans  of  the  alterations  in  Little  Lanchester.  Mr. 
Brinkman  received  him  gloomily,  without  rubbing  his 
hands  together,  and  assured  him  that  Mr.  Lamplow 
had  spent  the  day  before,  along  with  his  two  assistants, 
taking  measurements,  and  that  they  had  been  at  work 
again  since  eight  that  morning.  James  Whitaker  was 
very  pleased  to  hear  it;  their  energy  promised  to  let 
him  escape  safely,  the  contracts  signed  and  his  suc- 
cessor committed  to  his  scheme,  on  Tuesday  night. 
The  work  would  be  half  done  before  they  began  to 
suspect  that  he  had  disappeared  for  good. 

He  thought  it  well  to  encourage  the  workers  in  this 
strenuousness,  and  strolled  down  to  the  village.  He 


166  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

found  Mr.  Lamplow  hard  at  work ;  and  with  him,  note- 
book in  hand,  Mr.  Judson,  the  chief  builder  of  Lan- 
chester.  He  said  a  few  affable  words  of  appreciation 
to  them,  and  presented  either  of  them  with  one  of 
his  fine  cigars.  He  left  them  striving  hard  indeed 
to  humor  his  whim  for  speed. 

As  he  came  back  down  the  village,  he  met  Doctor 
Arbuthnot,  stopped  and  greeted  him  with  a  cheeriness 
as  gratifying  as  it  was  unexpected. 

"I'm  getting  on,  Doctor,"  he  growled.  "My  mem- 
ory hasn't  all  come  back;  but  some  of  it  has.  My 
arm  is  getting  less  stiff,  and  so  is  my  throat." 

"Good,  your  Grace — good,  I'm  pleased  to  hear  it," 
said  the  beaming  doctor. 

"I'm  inclined  to  fancy  that,  bar  that  loss  of  mem- 
ory and  stiffness,  the  electricity  did  me  good.  I'm 
feeling  more  cheerful." 

"Yes,  yes :  a  large  dose  like  that  would  indeed  have 
a  tonic  effect,"  said  the  doctor.  "I've  no  doubt  that 
when  you've  quite  recovered  from  these  temporary 
disabilities  you'll  be  much  the  better  for  it — much  the 
better." 

"It  was  a  queer  thing  that  tramp's  getting  struck 
too,"  said  James  Whitaker. 

"Very  queer  indeed,  your  Grace.  In  fact,  it  was 
quite  mysterious.  And  judging  from  his  hands  and 
his  extreme  cleanliness,  he  must  have  been  a  man  who 
had  seen  better  days." 

"Had  he  now?"  said  James  Whitaker  in  a  tone  of 
quiet  interest. 

"Yes.     But  I  didn't  dwell  on  it  at  the  inquest.  I 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  167 

know  how  your  Grace  dislikes  these  newspaper  fusses 
— especially  about  things  which  happen  about  here." 

"Quite  right — quite  right.  They  don't  do  any  one 
any  good." 

"No,  your  Grace.  And  it  was  odd  his  being  on 
Oak  Tree  Knoll — so  far  from  the  road,  your  Grace." 

"Jenkinson  told  me  he  had  gone  there  for  shelter," 
said  James  Whitaker. 

"He'd  hardly  go  so  far  for  shelter;  there's  plenty 
nearer  the  road  than  that." 

"No — perhaps  not.  Well,  we  shall  get  to  know 
all  about  it  one  of  these  days.  These  things  always 
come  out.  Good  morning,  Doctor,"  said  James  Whit- 
aker cheerfully;  and  he  walked  on. 

He  was  pleased  to  have  the  chance  of  being  affable 
once  more  to  the  doctor.  He  might  always  prove  a 
useful  friend. 

He  felt  that  he  had  already  done  a  good  morning's 
work ;  but  on  reaching  the  Abbey  he  found  that  it  was 
only  half  past  ten.  He  took  from  the  bureau  the 
bundle  of  letters  his  predecessor  had  received  from 
Lady  Middlemore  and  read  a  number  of  them  care- 
fully. In  several  he  found  pieces  of  gossip  about 
people  with  whom  he  had  played  baccarat,  and  stored 
them  in  his  mind  since  they  might  prove  useful  that 
evening. 

At  eleven  o'clock  he  was  at  the  bridge  in  the  hope  of 
finding  Elizabeth.  But  no  Elizabeth  came ;  and  his  dis- 
appointment was  keen.  At  a  quarter  past  eleven, 
therefore,  he  crossed  the  bridge  and  took  the  path 
through  the  wood  to  the  village.  There  was  a  sharp 


1 68  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

turn  in  it  just  before  the  gate  of  the  wood.  He  came 
round  the  corner  to  find  Elizabeth  sitting  on  the  gate. 

Possibly  the  elevation  to  his  exalted  station  \vas 
inspiring  into  him  the  diplomatic  spirit,  for  he  said 
reproachfully.  "So  you  never  came  after  all." 

"I  never  meant  to  come,"  said  Elizabeth  stiffly. 

He  leaned  against  the  gate-post,  looking  up  in  a 
very  pleasant  content  at  her  charming  face.  He  had 
no  desire  to  talk;  at  the  moment  it  was  enough  to 
gaze.  But  he  had  to  talk ;  and  he  said  several  things 
about  the  weather.  Elizabeth  replied  coldly  and  un- 
graciously; but  he  was  not  hurt.  He  took  it  that 
women  were  like  that ;  besides,  he  had  read  somewhere 
that  it  was  foolish  to  lose  your  temper  with  angry 
women  or  children. 

At  last  he  changed  the  subject  and  asked  her  a 
direct  question  about  herself;  and  presently  she  was 
telling  him  of  the  year  she  had  spent  at  school.  It 
had  been  the  great  period  in  her  life;  and  to  a  man  of 
less  domesticated  nature  than  himself  these  great  hap- 
penings would  have  sounded  trivial.  His  simplicity 
enabled  him  to  take  a  sympathetic  interest  in  them 
which  completed  the  process  of  appeasement. 

Presently  she  came  down  from  the  gate ;  they  walked 
back  through  the  wood,  across  the  stream,  and  along 
its  bank  to  their  sheltered  nook.  There  she  took  up 
for  a  while  the  tale  of  what  she  would  do  when  she 
was  a  duchess.  She  learned  from  him  that  he  had 
already  put  in  hand  the  work  of  rebuilding  and  drain- 
ing the  village ;  and  she  was  indeed  pleased  with  the 
quickness  with  which  he  had  acted  on  her  suggestion. 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  169 

Presently  she  said  thoughtfully :  "There's  no  doubt 
that  we  could  do  lots  of  good  when  we're  the  duke  and 
duchess." 

"Rather,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

On  their  way  back  to  the  bridge  she  said  that  she 
would  like  to  fish  the  stream;  and  he  learned  that 
she  had  for  years  fished  the  free  water  lower  down 
it,  on  the  farther  side  of  Little  Lanchester.  He  begged 
her  to  fish  it,  since  they  could  still  continue  the  process 
of  settling  their  future  relations  while  she  fished. 
Moreover,  did  any  one  see  them  together,  it  would 
afford  an  excellent  excuse  for  her  presence  in  the 
park.  She  said  she  would  begin  that  very  afternoon. 

At  three  o'clock  that  afternoon,  since  he  did  not  find 
her  at  the  bridge,  he  strolled  along  the  bank  of  the 
stream.  Before  he  had  gone  three  hundred  yards 
down  it  he  heard  her  voice,  and  along  with  it  a  man's 
voice.  He  was  surprised,  disagreeably  surprised,  to 
find  that  she  had  a  male  acquaintance;  and  since  his 
curiosity  was  awakened  he  walked  quietly  along 
among  the  trees  which  bordered  the  stream. 

From  some  distance  away  he  caught  the  words: 
"But  you  ought  ter  'ave  a  written  permit  from  Mr. 
Brinkman  himself,  miss ;  and  well  you  know  it." 

James  Whitaker  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief:  it  was 
only  a  keeper  with  her. 

"But  I  tell  you,  Pittaway,  the  'duke  himself  gave 
me  leave,"  came  the  voice  of  Elizabeth  in  firm  tones. 

"I  don't  know  nothing  about  that,"  growled  the 
keeper.  "My  orders  is  to  stop  anybody  fishing  with- 
out a  written  permit  from  Mr.  Brinkman." 


170  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Well,  I  haven't  got  any  written  permit  from  Mr. 
Brinkman,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"Then  you'll  'ave  ter  stop  fishing.  'Is  Grace's 
leave  makes  no  matter  at  all.  You  know  quite  well, 
miss,  as  Mr.  Brinkman  keeps  this  fishing  for  'imself 
and  'is  friends ;  an'  you've  got  to  stop." 

"I  shan't  do  anything  of  the  kind!"  cried  Elizabeth. 

"Then  I  shall  take  your  rod  away,  miss,"  said  the 
keeper  in  a  surlier  tone  than  ever. 

James  Whitaker  came  sharply  round  the  clump  of 
hazels  which  hid  him  from  the  speakers,  to  find  Eliz- 
abeth, very  finely  flushed,  facing  an  old  keeper  with 
a  red,  gnarled  and  very  surly  face. 

"What's  this  ?  What's  this  ?"  cried  James  Whitaker 
in  deep  husky  tones.  "What  the  devil  do  you  mean 
by  interfering  with  this  young  lady  when  I've  given 
her  leave  to  fish,  Pittaway?" 

The   keeper  turned   sharply,   blenching. 

"P-p-please,  your  G-G-Grace,  it's  Mr.  B-B-Brink- 
man's  orders,"  he  stammered. 

"You  lying  old  blackguard!  You're  just  making 
use  of  them  to  be  rude  to  Miss  Carton !"  roared  James 
Whitaker. 

"S'welp  me!  I'm  not,  your  Grace!  Them  is  'is 
Orders !"  cried  the  keeper. 

"Then  you  go  straight  to  Mr.  Brinkman  and  tell 
him  that  no  one — no  one ! — is  to  fish  this  stream  with- 
out leave  from  me!  And  you  take  a  week — or  a 
month's  notice — whichever  it  may  be,  and  clear  out!" 
roared  James  Whitaker.  "Be  off !" 

"B-b-but  I've  bin  in  your  G-G-Grace's  service  all 


WHITAKER'S   DUKEDOM  171; 

my  life,"  stammered  the  keeper  in  accents  of  the  deep- 
est dismay. 

"Go  and  tell  Mr.  Brinkman  what  I've  just  told  you ! 
Be  off!"  roared  James  Whitaker. 

The  keeper  slunk  away.  James  Whitaker  turned 
to  Elizabeth,  bade  her  good  afternoon  and  apologized 
for  the  behavior  of  Pittaway. 

Elizabeth  was  looking  a  little  frightened;  the  flush 
had  faded  from  her  cheeks;  there  was,  if  anything, 
rather  less  color  in  them  than  usual. 

"So  you  are  the  duke  after  all,"  she  said  in  a  hushed 
voice. 

"Because  I  make  such  a  noise  when  I'm  angry?" 

"Not  exactly  that.  But  you — you  look  like  a  duke 
when  your're  angry." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  I  look  like  a  duke  sometimes." 

"Oh,  you  do!"  said  Elizabeth  with  conviction.  "But 
you're  not  really  going  to  discharge  Pittaway.  He 
was  only  carrying  out  orders." 

"Of  course  I  am.    He  threatened  you." 

Elizabeth  flushed  faintly  with  pleasure. 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  want  him  discharged !"  she  cried. 

James  Whitaker  hesitated.  He  had  been  furiously 
annoyed  with  the  man ;  but  he  had  no  desire  to  punish 
him  severely;  after  all  he  was  a  poor  man. 

"All  right:  have  it  your  own  way,"  he  said. 

Elizabeth  thanked  him,  and  presently  got  to  her 
fishing.  He  lighted  a  cigar  and  watched  her.  The 
fishing  did  not  prevent  them  from  talking. 

After  a  while  she  said :  "It's  no  good :  I  don't  feel 
a  bit  shy  with  you,  though  you  are  the  duke." 


172  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"That's  the  difference  between  us.  I  feel  awfully 
shy  with  you,"  he  said  quickly. 

"Shy!    You  shy?"  she  cried,  and  laughed. 

He  was  pleased  to  hear  that  he  did  not  produce  the 
impression  of  being  shy  with  her;  and  he  was  doubt- 
ful whether  he  ought  to  regret  the  fact  that  he  was. 
After  all  shyness  was  becoming  to  a  married  man; 
also  it  helped  to  keep  him  out  of  mischief. 

They  spent  a  very  pleasant  afternoon ;  but  Elizabeth 
would  not  come  to  tea  at  the  Abbey,  declaring  that  if 
she  came  once  a  week  it  would  be  as  often  as  was 
safe.  He  walked  with  her  to  the  bridge,  deploring 
her  firmness :  and  as  they  were  parting  he  said  that  it 
was  the  more  to  be  deplored  since  his  baccarat  party 
would  prevent  him  from  coming  out  that  evening. 

"Is  Lady  Middlemore  coming?"  she  said  sharply. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  know  who's  coming 
and  who  isn't.  That  confounded  lightning  has 
knocked  it  clean  out  of  my  head." 

"You  mean  you  never  knew  at  all  who  were  in- 
vited," she  said  quickly  and  captiously.  "Is  Lady 
Cubbington  coming?" 

"Oh,  yes:  she's  coming." 

"It's  perfectly  sickening!"  she  said  with  some  heat 
"You  pretend  to  like  being  with  me;  and  you  spend 
every  moment  you  can  .get  with  Lady  Middlemore 
and  Lady  Cubbington." 

"Well,  it  can't  be  helped.  This  party  was  fixed  up 
before  I  met  you,"  he  said  calmly. 

"But  it's  got  to  be  helped!"  she  cried  indignantly. 
"I'm  not  going  to  stand  it.  If  it  goes  on,  I  shall  just 


[WHITAKER'S   DUKEDOM  173 

stop  the  whole  thing;  and  then  you  know  what  will 
happen." 

"Yes :  you  won't  be  a  duchess,"  he  said  calmly. 

"And  you  certainly  won't  be  a  duke." 

"And  would  you  really  inform  the  police,  Eliza- 
beth?" he  said  sadly. 

"How  dare  you  call  me  Elizabeth  ?"  she  cried. 

"Well,  people  who  are  going  to  be  married  gen- 
erally call  each  other  by  their  Christian  names." 

"Going  to  be  married!  When  you've  only  known 
me  two  or  three  days !" 

"Well,  I  thought  that  was  the  idea,"  he  said  some- 
what helplessly. 

"And  you  spending  all  your  time  with  Lady  Middle- 
more  and  Lady  Cubbington!" 

"But  what  do  they  matter?  I  can't  marry  either  of 
them.  They're  married  already,"  he  protested. 

"That  makes  it  all  the  worse,"  she  said  with  very 
stern  coldness. 

"Ah,  you're  prejudiced,"  he  said. 

"I'm  nothing  of  the  kind!"  she  cried. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked  patient. 

She  was  silent,  gazing  at  him  thoughtfully  with 
puckered  brow. 

Then  she  said:  "I  don't  mind  Lady  Cubbington 
nearly  so  much.  She's  not  at  all  like  me." 

With  that  cryptic  utterance  she  left  him. 

He  walked  up  to  the  Abbey  in  a  thoughtful  con- 
tent. Women  were  indeed  odd  illogical  creatures, 
but  it  was  pleasant  that  Elizabeth  should  be  jealous 
of  Lady  Middlemore.  It  was  certainly  a  great  pity 


174  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

that  he  was  not  really  the  Duke  of  Lanchester,  and 
that  he  was  already  hampered  by  a  wife.  It  would 
have  been  delightful  to  take  Elizabeth  away  from  Little 
Lanchester  and  give  her  the  full  life  she  craved. 

He  had  always  been  vaguely  unsatisfied  in  the  mat- 
ter of  Millicent,  but  he  had  never  before  considered 
her  an  actual  impediment  to  the  expansion  of  his 
spirit. 

He  wondered  whether  Elizabeth  did  or  did  not  be- 
lieve him  to  be  the  duke. 

After  he  had  dressed  for  dinner  he  bade  Jenkinson 
announce  his  guests  very  distinctly,  and  awaited  their 
coming  with  very  little  nervousness.  He  was  grow- 
ing confident  of  his  power  to  make  the  friends  of  his 
predecessor  accept  him:  if  such  intimate  friends  as 
Lady  Cubbington  and  Lady  Middlemore  had  failed 
to  perceive  with  certainty  that  he  was  not  the  duke,  it 
was  very  unlikely  that  any  one  of  their  circle  would 
discover  it.  Indeed  after  he  had  received  the  first 
half-dozen,  he  was  not  only  at  his  ease  but  he  was  en- 
joying a  pleasant  sense  of  his  importance  in  the  world. 

He  had  left  everything  to  Jenkinson  and  his  chef, 
and  everything  went  smoothly.  The  Countess  of  Haps- 
worth,  a  subdued  American  lady  of  forty,  interested  in 
small  Pomeranians,  sat  on  his  right,  Lady  Cubbing- 
ton  on  his  left.  She  was  looking  most  beautiful, 
dazzling  indeed,  and  when  she  pressed  his  foot  under 
the  table  he  returned  the  pressure  with  conviction. 
He  found  himself  called  on  to  say  little;  Lady  Cub- 
bington and  Lady  Hapsworth  talked  all  the  while  with 
the  furious  vivacity  of  schoolgirls.  Now  and  again 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  175 

he  growled  a  husky  phrase;  for  the  rest,  he  enjoyed 
his  dinner  and  the  beautiful  face  of  Lady  Cubbington. 

Dinner  over,  they  were  not  long  getting  to  baccarat. 
He  did  not  bring  with  him  any  of  his  previous  win- 
nings, for  he  was  not  playing  the  game  to  please  him- 
self, but  merely  to  maintain  the  proper  ducal  attitude ; 
he  brought  with  him  five  hundred  dollars  of  the  money 
his  predecessor  had  left  in  the  bureau. 

He  played  cautiously,  but  with  the  fortune  which 
had  apparently  always  attended  his  predecessor,  and 
lost  about  three  hundred  dollars.  Then  his  luck  turned, 
and  he  won  about  four  hundred  dollars.  Lady  Cub- 
bington, who  was  playing  beside  him,  whispered  to 
him  that  it  would  be  delightful  in  the  garden;  and 
he  was  in  half  a  mind  to  quit  the  game  and  go  out 
with  her,  when  he  was  called  on  to  take  the  bank. 
For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  then  he  took  it,  making 
it  five  hundred  dollars. 

For  a  while  he  played  with  varying  fortune,  then 
luck  set  steadily  his  way,  and  in  half  an  hour  he 
won  nine  thousand  dollars.  It  was  enough  for  him. 
He  rose,  drank  a  brandy  and  soda,  lighted  a  cigar 
and  presently  thinking  it  wiser  to  humor  Lady  Cub- 
bington, went  with  her  into  the  garden.  He  was  in  a 
considerable  elation  at  his  success  at  baccarat,  and  he 
found  that  he  had  lost  his  earlier  shyness  with  her. 
For  her  part,  she  seemed  more  satisfied  with  him ;  she 
said  that  he  was  recovering  from  the  lightning,  fast 
becoming  his  old  self.  He  could  not  but  take  credit 
to  himself  for  the  manifest  improvement  he  had  made 
in  the  art  of  kissing. 


176  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

He  learned  from  her  that  his  guests  did  not  expect 
him  to  sit  up  till  four  in  the  morning  playing  baccarat 
with  them;  that  he  might  slip  away  at  any  time  he 
liked,  bidding  no  one  good  night,  and  no  one  would 
feel  slighted.  This  easy  fashion  of  entertaining  one's 
guests  pleased  him:  it  was  indeed  different  from  the 
almost  solemn  ceremoniousness  of  the  Christmas 
parties  of  his  late  father-in-law.  But  before  he  fell 
asleep  he  reflected  with  some  sadness  on  the  oddity 
of  the  world :  he  had  kissed  Lady  Cubbington  and 
Lady  Middlemore  much  more  than  he  really  desired ; 
but  Elizabeth,  whom  he  desired  keenly  to  kiss,  he  had 
not  kissed  at  all. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  a  fresh  pink-cheeked 
maid  waited  on  him,  and  he  took  it  that  Jenkinson  and 
the  footman  were  sleeping  off  the  late  hours  of  his 
predecessor's  friends.  He  liked  the  change.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  in  the  fresh  morning  a  fresh  maid  was 
better  for  the  eyes  than  middle-aged  men.  He  bade 
her  wait  on  him  at  breakfast  every  morning. 

He  was  somewhat  annoyed  that  it  was  Sunday,  for 
Elizabeth  had  told  him  that  she  must  go  to  church  and 
could  by  no  means  come  into  the  park  that  morning. 
He  thought  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to  go  to  church 
in  order  to  look  at  her,  but  he  was  doubtful  about  it. 
On  the  one  hand  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  go  to 
church  and  be  seen  by  everybody;  but  on  the  other 
hand  the  late  duke  might  very  well  have  had  certain 
ways  of  behaving  in  church  which  the  congregation 
had  studied  for  years.  Any  deviation  from  them 
would  be  marked  and  might  set  tongues  wagging  dan- 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  177 

gerously.  Yet  it  might  be  the  practise  of  the  duke 
to  go  every  Sunday. 

He  rang  for  Tomkins  and  said  to  him  gloomily: 
"When  did  I  go  to  church  last  ?" 

"I  don't  remember,  your  Grace,"  said  Tomkins  in 
a  tone  of  surprise. 

"And  I've  forgotten  too.  It  doesn't  matter," 
growled  James  Whitaker  yet  more  gloomily. 

He  betook  himself  to  the  study  of  Mr.  Lamplow's 
plan  for  the  drainage  of  Little  Lanchester. 

He  found  that  Sunday  had  made  no  difference  in 
the  habits  of  the  late  duke ;  dinner  was  not,  as  he  had 
thought  likely,  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  There  was 
lunch  as  usual. 

He  was  somewhat  taken  aback  by  the  arrival  of 
Sir  Richard  Starton,  who  had  motored  over  to  lunch 
with  him.  He  welcomed  him  gloomily,  and  since  he 
feared  lest  he  should  prevent  him  from  meeting  Eliz- 
beth  in  the  park  in  the  afternoon,  he  remained  some- 
what gloomy  in  his  manner  to  him.  He  kept  a  careful 
watch  on  himself  that  he  might  make  no  slip  in  eating 
or  drinking,  but  he  had  little  fear  that  his  guest  would 
observe  anything. 

Indeed,  in  the  middle  of  the  lunch,  Sir  Richard  said : 
"There's  no  doubt  about  it,  Lanchester;  you're  the 
last  of  the  dukes.  You're  the  only  one  of  them  left 
with  the  real  manner.  I  was  watching  you  all  last 
night,  and  not  once  did  I  see  you  smile." 

James  Whitaker  was  staring  at  him  in  great  aston- 
ishment ;  he  thought  that  he  must  be  joking.  But  he 
was  plainly  enough  doing  nothing  of  the  kind. 


178  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"There  was  nothing  to  smile  at,"  he  growled. 

But  the  tribute  pleased  him. 

"Yes,  that's  it.  That's  the  right  attitude,"  said  Sir 
Richard  in  a  tone  of  warm  approval.  "You're  really 
TT.'  The  only  thing  is  you're  living  a  hundred  years 
too  late." 

"Am  I?"  growled  James  Whitaker  yet  more 
gloomily. 

"Of  course  you  are.  You  ought  to  have  lived  a 
hundred  years  ago.  Why,  you'd  have  been  the  bosom 
friend  of  George  IV." 

George  IV  was  one  of  the  persons  in  history  whom 
James  Whitaker  most  detested,  and  with  genuine  ducal 
feeling  he  growled : 

"Nothing  of  the  kind!  The  fellow  was  a  damned 
tailor!" 

"Oh,  yes ;  you  are  the  last  of  the  dukes.  There's  no 
doubt  about  it,"  said  his  guest,  laughing  gently. 

James  Whitaker  was  much  pleased  by  this  tribute 
to  his  fitness  for  the  position  he  was  holding.  But  he 
wondered  why  Sir  Richard  had  been  moved  to  make 
it,  whether  it  was  disinterested.  It  was  hard  to  per- 
ceive what  motive  he  could  have  had  for  this  lavish 
praise  unless  it  came  from  his  heart.  After  lunch, 
indeed,  he  suggested  that  they  should  play  picquet  for 
a  couple  of  hours,  but  he  did  not  seem  at  all  vexed  by 
James  Whitaker's  refusal  to  play  on  the  ground  that 
be  had  not  yet  recovered  his  picquet  memory.  He 
suggested  that  they  should  motor  over  to  Wanstairs 
and  play  bridge  with  the  Hapsworths.  When  James 
Whitaker  rejected  this  diversion  also,  he  looked  at 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  179 

him  with  commiserating  eyes,  said  a  few  sympathetic 
words  and  presently  motored  off  to  play  without  him. 

James  Whitaker  was  pleased  to  be  left  free,  and  at 
three  o'clock  he  betook  himself  to  the  bridge  in  the 
park.  He  had  not  waited  ten  minutes  when,  to  his 
joy,  Elizabeth  came.  She  came  in  a  very  pleasant, 
smiling  mood,  for  she  was  wearing  her  prettiest  frock 
and  hat.  She  had  wished  him  to  see  her  at  her  best. 

She  did  indeed  charm  him;  his  heart  warmed  and 
warmed  to  her  young  loveliness.  Had  not  his  air  been 
set  and  stern  and  gloomy,  she  must  have  seen  how 
profoundly  she  moved  him.  As  it  was  she  only  ob- 
served that  his  eyes  were  much  brighter  than  she  had 
yet  seen  them.  Once  more  she  thought  them  very 
fine  eyes. 

She  was  not  only  charming  to  his  eye,  but  she  was 
in  a  charming  mood,  no  longer  captious  or  inclined 
to  raise  the  matter  of  Lady  Cubbington  or  Lady  Mid- 
dlemore.  His  violence  to  Pittaway  the  day  before 
had  convinced  her  for  the  while  that  he  was  the  duke, 
though,  indeed,  she  was  not  letting  the  matter  trouble 
her.  They  enjoyed,  therefore,  a  delightful  afternoon. 
She  talked  much  more  than  he,  but  he  was  very  sym- 
pathetic with  her.  He  abated  the  husky  growl  little 
by  little,  and  spoke  in  his  natural  deep  but  musical 
voice,  and  she  found  it  attractive.  Of  a  sudden  a 
sense  of  intimacy  had  awakened  in  their  hearts,  and 
for  no  fresh  reason  that  either  of  them  could  have 
given,  they  felt  drawn  more  closely  together.  She 
was  easily  persuaded  to  come  to  tea  on  the  terrace. 

She  was  talking  less  about  what  she  would  do  when 


i8o  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

she  was  duchess,  and  showing  more  curiosity  about 
him,  how  things  affected  him.  There  were  questions 
and  speculations  in  her  eyes  when  they  rested  on  him. 
He  found  it  quite  easy  to  talk  to  her. 

She  went  away  at  six,  for  she  had  to  go  to  evening 
service ;  and  she  went  reluctantly.  She  promised  readily 
to  meet  him  at  nine. 

He  came  back  to  the  Abbey  in  a  very  pleasant  exalta- 
tion. The  view  from  the  terrace  had  a  finer  beauty,  the 
dishes  at  dinner,  the  wine,  the  cigar  were  of  finer 
flavor.  The  beautiful  face  of  Elizabeth  kept  rising 
before  his  eyes,  quickening  his  other  pleasures. 

He  went  to  their  trysting-place  in  some  doubt 
whether  he  would  find  her  as  charming  that  night  as 
she  had  been  in  the  afternoon.  But  he  found  that  in 
the  light  of  the  moon  she  was  even  more  charming. 

He  went  to  bed  very  pleased  with  his  day;  it  had 
been  the  ideal  day  for  which  he  had  looked  when  he 
had  started  on  his  holiday.  He  was  falling  asleep 
when  he  was  fully  awakened  again  by  the  thought  that 
from  Elizabeth  to  Millicent,  from  Lanchester  Abbey 
to  Hammersmith  would  be  a  fall  indeed  distressing. 
Then  the  thought  came  to  him  that  he  might  never 
go  back  to  Millicent  and  Hammersmith:  he  had  ten 
thousand  dollars.  Millicent  neither  needed  nor  desired 
him;  and  Hammersmith  had  been  but  an  unkindly  city. 


CHAPTER  XI 

HE  awoke  with  the  feeling  strong  in  him  that  the 
ten  thousand  dollars  he  had  won  at  baccarat 
had  indeed  changed  the  world.  It  had  made  him  a  free 
man;  not,  indeed,  as  free  as  a  Duke  of  Lanchester, 
but  free  enough.  At  any  rate,  he  was  no  longer  bound 
to  the  failing  business  at  Hammersmith.  All  the 
world  was  open  to  him;  he  could  now  carry  his  knowl- 
edge and  his  talents  into  any  sphere  where  they  could 
find  scope. 

None  the  less,  it  would  be  very  hard  to  leave  the 
Abbey,  or  rather,  to  be  exact,  it  would  be  very  hard  to 
leave  Elizabeth.  Of  course,  he  would  not  suffer  se- 
riously from  seeing  her  no  more,  for  he  had  only 
known  her  five  days,  and  that  could  not  have  given 
his  feeling  for  her  time  to  take  root  in  any  depth  of 
his  being.  Yet  it  would  be  hard  to  leave  her. 

After  breakfast  he  sent  Mr.  Lamplow's  plan  for  the 
draining  of  Little  Lanchester  to  him  at  Lanchester  by 
Hibbert  in  the  racing  car,  with  a  note  reminding  him 
that  the  contract  was  to  be  ready  to  sign  at  six  on  the 
Tuesday  evening;  then  he  dismissed  that  matter  from 
his  mind.  He  had  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  the  last  two 
days  of  his  stay. 

Therefore,  before  he  went  to  the  park  to  meet  Eliza- 
beth, he  sent  for  Jenkinson,  bade  him  tell  the  chef 

181 


182  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

that  he  had  a  fancy  for  an  especially  good  dinner  that 
night,  and  then  questioned  him  about  the  rarities  in 
the  Abbey  cellars.  He  weighed  his  statements  care- 
fully, and  decided  to  drink  '68  Chateau  d'Yquem  and 
'92  Pol  Roget  with  that  dinner.  Jenkinson  suggested 
a  glass  of  '70  port,  Martini's,  to  drink  after  dinner, 
and  after  a  little  thought  James  Whitaker  accepted 
the  suggestion  with  becoming  gravity. 

He  spent  the  morning  in  the  park  watching  Eliza- 
beth fish,  and  he  spent  the  afternoon  in  the  same 
pleasant  occupation.  Now  and  again  she  rested  from 
her  fishing,  and  they  talked.  In  the  evening  they  only 
talked;  Elizabeth  did  not  fish.  All  the  day  and  eve- 
ning they  did  not  fall  a-sparring  once.  This  question 
whether  he  was,  or  was  not,  the  duke  was  not  raised ; 
the  far  graver  questions  of  Lady  Cubbington  and  Lady 
Middlemore  were  not  once  debated.  Elizabeth  seemed 
content  to  try  merely  to  learn  more  about  his  per- 
sonality, to  let  slip  confidences  about  herself,  to  let 
their  intimacy  deepen. 

They  lingered  over  their  farewell  that  night,  hesi- 
tant, a  little  confused;  and  quite  suddenly  the  knowl- 
edge came  to  James  Whitaker  that  he  might  kiss  her. 
It  startled  him :  he  must  not  kiss  her ;  it  was  not  fair 
to  her — he  was  a  married  man.  He  delayed  no  longer ; 
he  bade  her  good  night,  and  left  her. 

He  came  back  to  the  Abbey  a  little  shaken  by  his 
sudden  discovery,  and  not  a  little  exultant.  He  tried 
to  banish  his  exultation ;  he  felt  that  he  had  no  right 
to  it.  Of  course  she  could  not  really  be  in  love  with 
him;  she  had  known  him  so  short  a  time.  He  must, 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  183 

however,  have  taken  her  girlish  fancy.  He  had  cer- 
tainly no  right  to  be  exultant  about  it. 

He  never,  for  a  moment,  thought  that  he  might  have 
been  mistaken ;  he  knew  that  he  might  have  kissed  her 
as  surely  as  he  knew  that  he  was  James  Whitaker. 

After  he  had  gone  to  bed  and  lay  thinking  of  her 
there  came  a  revulsion.  The  while  his  moral  sense 
had  the  worst  of  it,  and  he  was  filled  with  an  almost 
violent  regret  that  he  had  not  kissed  her.  There  was 
no  doubt  about  it ;  she  had  taken  his  fancy  no  whit  less 
than  he  had  taken  hers.  They  might  surely  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  a  few  kisses. 

It  was  a  long  while  before  his  moral  sense  got  the 
better  of  his  unhallowed  thought,  and  he  perceived 
clearly  and  with  regret  that  his  domesticated  nature 
was  indeed  weakening  under  the  pressure  of  the  ducal 
life. 

He  awoke  to  his  last  day  at  the  Abbey,  resolved  to 
enjoy  to  the  full  every  minute  of  it.  He  ate  a  large 
breakfast  very  slowly,  for  he  might  never  again  in  his 
life  enjoy  a  breakfast  cooked  by  so  great  an  artist  as 
the  Abbey  chef.  After  it  he  lighted  a  cigar  with  an  al- 
most solemn  air.  At  eleven  he  met  Elizabeth  and  spent 
the  morning  with  her.  A  little  while  before  they  parted 
he  told  her  that  he  was  going  up  to  London  that  eve- 
ning, and  that  he  might  have  to  stay  there  some  days. 
She  received  the  news  glumly,  saying: 

"It  will  be  very  dull  here  again." 

"It  will  be  much  duller  for  me  without  you,"  he 
said  quickly. 

His  suddenly  devouring  eyes  set  her  flushing. 


i84  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

After  lunch,  an  excellent  lunch,  treated  with  a  ten- 
der thoroughness,  he  practised  his  predecessor's  signa- 
ture for  a  little  while,  to  be  sure  that  his  hand  would 
be  in  when  it  came  to  signing  the  contract  with  the 
builders.  Then  he  ordered  Tomkins  to  pack  a  port- 
manteau with  everything  he  should  need  for  three  days 
in  London.  Tomkins  asked  if  he  should  come  with 
him,  and  James  Whitaker  said  that  he  would  not  need 
him. 

"By  the  way,  I've  quite  forgotten  where  I  stay  when 
I'm  in  London,"  he  growled. 

"Your  Grace  used  to  stay  at  Claridge's;  but  lately 
you've  taken  to  staying  at  the  Ritz,"  said  the  valet. 

"All  right:  forward  my  letters  to  the  Ritz,"  said 
James  Whitaker. 

The  knowledge  that  it  was  his  last  afternoon  with 
Elizabeth  weighed  on  him  heavily.  It  made  him  eager 
to  lose  nothing  of  the  pleasure  to  be  drawn  from  it, 
and  it  informed  his  attitude  to  her  with  a  tenderness 
which  for  the  time  being  smoothed  away  his  natural 
roughness.  The  new  sense  of  intimacy  which  had 
sprung  to  being  in  them  the  day  before  had  not  weak- 
ened; his  attitude  deepened  it. 

All  the  while  he  was  alert  to  miss  no  beauty  of  her 
changing  face  and  supple  figure  and  delightful  voice. 
He  strove  to  store  his  mind  with  memories  of  her 
beauty  which  should  remain  with  him,  a  lasting  re- 
freshment in  the  dry  ways  of  the  world.  He  was  aware 
that  he  might  well  be  storing  it  also  with  a  lasting  re- 
gret ;  but  of  that  he  was  careless. 

Elizabeth  was  susceptible  to  the  new  tenderness  in 


.WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  185 

his  attitude,  the  frequent  tender  inflections  of  his 
voice,  and  she  was  gentle  with  him  all  the  time.  Now 
and  again  a  kind  of  dreary  oppression  weighed  on 
them,  and  they  fell  into  silences  hard  to  break. 

At  half  past  four  he  persuaded  her  to  come  to  tea 
on  the  terrace  of  the  Abbey,  and  she  needed  but  little 
urging.  It  was  at  tea  that  he  observed  another  change 
in  her :  she  seemed  to  have  grown  older,  to  have  be- 
come much  more  of  a  woman  in  the  three  days  which 
had  passed  since  she  had  last  had  tea  with  him.  She 
still  took  a  healthy  interest  in  the  delicate  cakes;  but 
she  was  quieter,  even  graver,  and  plainly  she  was  far 
more  interested  in  him. 

After  tea  he  had  lighted  a  cigarette  and  was  watch- 
ing her  as  she  gazed  rather  dreamily  across  the  valley 
of  the  Wyper,  when,  of  a  sudden,  the  full  knowledge 
of  all  that  he  was  losing  in  leaving  her  came  to  him 
with  an  almost  violent  shock.  It  was  good,  indeed,  to 
have  had  a  splendid  holiday,  and  to  be  ending  it  a  free 
man  with  ten  thousand  dollars  in  his  pocket;  but 
money  and  memories  profited  nothing,  if  he  was 
passing  into  a  life  empty  of  Elizabeth.  A  clear  glimpse 
down  its  dreary  vista  filled  him  with  a  dreadful  panic. 
Presently  it  left  him  in  a  raging  bitterness. 

Surprised  by  his  sudden  scowling  gloom,  she  asked 
him  what  was  the  matter. 

"It's  going  to  London — away  from  you." 

"Will  you  miss  me  so  much  as  all  that  ?"  she  said  in 
a  tone  of  great  pleasure. 

"You  can't  think  how  much  I  shall  miss  you,"  he 
said  earnestly. 


1 86  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

She  wondered  for  a  moment  whether  he  had  missed 
other  women  as  much.  She  nearly  asked  him,  but  the 
quick  desire  not  to  mar  this  pleasant  afternoon  checked 
her. 

"It's  only  for  three  days,"  she  said  in  a  cheering 
tone. 

He  said  nothing;  he  only  gazed  at  her  with  angry 
miserable  eyes. 

"It's  very  odd  that  we  should  be  going  to  miss  each 
other  so  much  when  we've  only  known  each  other 
such  a  little  while,"  she  said. 

"Odd?  It's  incredible!  I  wouldn't  have  believed 
it!"  he  cried. 

She  flushed  and  gazed  at  him  with  grateful  eyes; 
there  was  a  most  flattering  sincerity  in  his  tone. 

"But  you — you  must  have  missed  other  women  just 
as  much,"  she  said. 

She  was  sure  he  had  not;  but  she  wished  to  hear 
him  say  it. 

"Other  women?"  he  growled.  "There  aren't  any 
other  women!  There  never  were  any." 

She  breathed  a  soft  sigh  of  content  and  gazed  at 
him  with  eyes  more  grateful  than  ever. 

He  gazed  at  her  somberly,  a  dull  flame  in  his  eyes. 
Wild  ideas  kept  taking  possession  of  his  mind:  he 
would  tell  her  that  he  was  not  the  Duke  of  Lan- 
chester,  but  James  Whitaker,  furniture-dealer,  of  Ham- 
mersmith; he  would  tell  her  that  he  was  married; 
then  he  would  beg  her  to  come  to  America  with  him 
to  start  a  new  life.  If  she  loved  him,  it  would  mat- 
ter little  to  her  whether  he  were,  or  were  not,  the  duke. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  187 

If  she  loved  him,  she  would  come.  He  had  an  odd 
certain  conviction,  deep  down  in  his  heart,  that  he 
could  persuade  her  to  come. 

But  he  was  silent.  It  was  all  so  absurd,  so  unfair  to 
her.  He  gazed  round  somewhat  wildly ;  the  imposing 
mass  of  the  Abbey,  the  beautiful  garden,  and  beauti- 
ful, peaceful  valley  seemed  so  incongruous  with  the 
turmoil  in  his  breast. 

Then  Jenkinson  came  through  the  window  of  the 
blue  drawing-room,  bringing  a  telegram  on  a  salver. 

James  Whitaker  opened  it,  scowling.     It  ran: 

"Regret  contract  can  not  possibly  be  ready  before 
three-thirty  to-morrow  Judson  can  not  complete  speci- 
fications earlier  Lamplow." 

Here  was  a  pretty  business :  either  he  would  have 
to  take  his  departure  leaving  the  contract  unsigned, 
or  he  would  have  to  stay  and  expose  himself  to  the 
risk  of  being  recognized  by  Lord  Edward  Beddard. 
iWhich  should  he  do? 

His  mind  was  in  too  great  a  turmoil  for  a  clear  con- 
sideration of  the  matter  at  the  moment;  and  in  any 
case  it  was  not  one  to  settle  out  of  hand.  Then  he 
leaped  at  the  chance  of  another  evening  in  the  park 
with  Elizabeth. 

"This  settles  my  going  to  London  to-night,"  he  said. 
"I  must  wait  and  go  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  said  Elizabeth  softly. 

He  succeeded  in  putting  the  question  of  what  he 
should  do  about  meeting  Lord  Edward  Beddard  out 


1 88  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

of  his  mind  till  he  parted  with  her  in  the  wood  on  the 
way  to  the  village.  Then  he  gave  all  his  mind  to  it. 

He  might  even  now  spend  the  evening  with  her, 
catch  a  morning  train  to  London  and  escape,  leaving 
the  contracts  unsigned.  The  drawback  to  this  course 
was  that  it  might  excite  the  suspicion  that  he  had  fled 
just  before  Lord  Edward  Beddard's  arrival  in  order 
to  avoid  him.  There  was  indeed  no  great  chance  of 
it;  but  his  flight  might  have  that  result.  Again  it 
went  sorely  against  the  grain  to  fly  so  directly  from 
this  sponger.  To  depart  the  evening  before  his  coming 
had  not  gone  against  the  grain,  but  this  definite  flight 
was  another  matter.  He  had  grown  to  detest  his  suc- 
cessor so  heartily. 

But  most  of  all  he  was  set  on  signing  the  contract. 
All  his  obstinacy  was  up  in  arms  at  the  thought  of 
abandoning  his  scheme  for  the  improvement  of  the 
condition  of  the  perpetual  dwellers  on  the  estate.  He 
had  a  dim  thought  that  it  justified  his  temporary 
usurpation. 

Throughout  the  dinner  he  weighed  the  arguments  for 
and  against  his  going,  and  as  he  lighted  his  cigar  he 
came  to  the  final  resolve  that  he  would  stay  and  risk 
recognition. 

He  walked  briskly  across  the  terrace  with  his  mind 
at  ease.  As  he  came  to  the  top  of  the  steps  he  saw 
the  lights  of  a  motor-car  coming  through  the  distant 
park  gates.  He  chuckled  at  his  escape.  He  was  nearly 
at  the  bridge  when  it  stopped  at  the  Abbey  doors. 

He  came  to  the  bridge  and  leaned  against  the  par- 
apet, waiting.  He  told  himself  that  he  must  be  care- 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  189 

ful  not  to  raise  Elizabeth's  hopes  any  higher — for  her 
own  sake.  He  observed  with  some  surprise  that  in  the 
expectation  of  her  coming  his  heart  was  beating  quick- 
ly. Presently  she  came,  on  quicker  feet  than  usual. 
Her  face  was  clouded,  but  at  the  sight  of  him  it 
cleared. 

"I  didn't  expect  to  find  you  here.  I  saw  Lady 
Cubbington's  motor-car,"  she  said  quickly. 

"It  would  take  a  great  deal  more  than  Lady  Cub- 
bington  to  keep  me  away  from  you,"  he  said  quickly, 
forgetting  his  intention  of  not  raising  her  hopes 
higher. 

"But  there  were  four  or  five  people  in  the  car,"  she 
said.  "And  they  must  know  you  saw  it  come  through 
the  park." 

"I  don't  care,"  he  said. 

"I  suppose  that's  one  great  advantage  of  being  a 
duke :  you  can  do  as  you  like,  and  no  one  thinks  you 
rude  for  doing  it.  If  any  one  else  did  it,  every  one 
would  think  it  awfully  rude." 

"Oh,  they'll  amuse  one  another  quite  well  without 
me,"  he  said  carelessly.  "But  let's  stroll  along  to  our 
usual  nook.  It  would  be  just  like  their  cheek  to  send 
out  a  search-party  for  me." 

She  came  with  a  little  sigh  of  relief,  for  she  had 
feared  that  these  unbidden  guests  had  spoiled  their 
evening. 

When  they  came  to  their  nook  on  the  bank  of  the 
trout-stream  they  sat  down  on  turf  still  warm  from 
the  sun,  their  backs  against  a  bank.  But  now  that 
they  were  safe  from  interruption  by  a  search-party, 


i9o  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

they  seemed  to  have  but  little  to  say  to  each  other. 
On  this,  his  last  night  with  her,  James  Whitaker  de- 
sired keenly  to  shine,  to  leave  a  final  attractive  im- 
pression of  himself  on  her  mind.  But  an  oppression, 
an  intense  self-consciousness  was  on  him;  he  could 
hardly  talk,  much  less  shine.  It  was  annoying,  but 
presently  he  lost  his  annoyance  in  the  pleasure  of  be- 
ing with  her.  It  was  almost  enough  for  him  to  gaze 
at  her  face  in  the  moonlight.  Her  eyes  looked  so 
large  and  wonderful  and  mysterious. 

Now  and  again  she  moved  a  little  uneasily  and 
looked  at  him  with  a  question  in  her  eyes,  as  though 
she  were  troubled  by  something  he  could  explain. 

Then  a  craving  to  touch  her  came  on  him;  and  his 
hand  moved  toward  hers  involuntarily.  He  drew  it 
sharply  back.  That  would  never  do.  If  he  once  held 
her  hand  in  his,  he  would  assuredly  kiss  her,  and  tell 
her  all  she  was  to  him.  He  must  not ;  it  would  be 
grossly  unfair.  He  lighted  another  cigar  hastily. 
There  was  no  doubt  about  it :  whether  he  went  in  the 
morning  or  the  afternoon  of  the  morrow,  go  he  must 
— for  her  sake.  Perhaps  he  had  already  stayed  too 
long. 

Yet  he  did  not  think  that.  At  first  she  would  miss 
him;  but  she  surely  would  not  miss  him  for  long. 
After  all  she  had  only  known  him  a  week. 

The  cigar  loosed  his  tongue  a  little,  and  he  talked 
more  easily.  Now  and  again  the  craving  to  touch  her 
returned;  but  he  kept  it  under  control.  They  talked 
fitfully  and  with  an  effort  of  trivial  things ;  they  could 
not  help  it  that  their  eyes  and  their  tones  held  a  differ- 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  191 

ent,  far  more  weighty  discourse.  She  did  not  try 
to  help  it. 

The  church  clock,  striking  eleven,  brought  Eliza- 
beth to  her  feet,  and  he  arose  with  a  sigh  for  the  last 
of  his  enchanted  hours.  They  took  their  way  slowly 
to  the  bridge.  He  murmured  something  foolish  about 
the  moonlight  on  the  water,  and  they  went  on  in  si- 
lence. They  crossed  the  bridge  into  the  wood. 

Midway  along  the  path  through  the  wood  the  un- 
controllable impulse  seized  James  Whitaker.  They 
were  walking  close  beside  each  other,  and  her  shoul- 
der rested  for  a  moment  against  his  arm.  The  touch 
broke  his  resolve;  almost  against  his  will  he  put  his 
arm  clumsily  around  her  and  drew  her  to  him.  She 
gasped  and  threw  up  her  hands  and  pushed  at  his 
chest,  but  with  no  great  vigor.  He  threw  the  other 
arm  around  her,  lifted  her  off  her  feet  and  kissed  her. 

"Oh,  don't,   J-J-John — please!"   she  cried   faintly. 

But  his  lips  were  too  thirsty,  and  he  kissed  her  again 
and  again  violently.  When  he  did  let  her  go,  she 
leaned  against  him,  shaken  and  trembling. 

"You  are  a  darling!"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"How  strong  you  are — and  rough !"  she  said  faintly. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  he  said  penitently.  "I  felt — 
as — as — as  if  I  could  have  eaten  you !" 

"I  felt  as  if  I  were  being  eaten,"  she  said,  and 
laughed  faintly. 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  again,  and  she  found  that 
he  was  trembling,  even  as  she  was.  The  discovery 
thrilled  her  almost  more  keenly  than  his  violent  kisses. 

"It's  very  odd.    I  never  felt  like  that  in  my  life  be- 


192 

fore — never,"  he  said  slowly  in  the  accents  of  the 
strongest  conviction. 

"I'm  sure  I  never  did,"  said  Elizabeth  with  no  less 
conviction. 

He  heaved  a  great  relaxing  sigh  of  pleasure. 

"You — you  didn't  mind?  Did  you?"  he  said  a  lit- 
tle anxiously. 

"Oh — yes — no — I  don't  know." 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  again  gently. 

"It  was  rather  thrilling,"  she  confessed. 

"I  do  love  you,"  he  said,  and  felt  her  quiver  to  the 
avowal. 

"It  seems  such  a  short  time  to  fall  in  love  in — a 
week,"  she  said,  loosing  herself,  and  moving  on. 

"It  seems  a  lot  longer  than  a  week  to  me.  I  seem 
to  have  moved  into  a  new  world  altogether  since  I 
knew  you." 

"Well,  that's  exactly  how  I  feel,"  she  said. 

He  stopped  her  to  kiss  her  again,  and  kept  his  arm 
round  her  when  they  moved  on. 

"To  think  that  I  thought  you  weren't  the  duke!" 
she  said  presently. 

"Well,  it  was  always  possible  I  wasn't,"  he  said. 

She  squeezed  his  arm  gently. 

"How  I  did  bully  you !':  she  said. 

At  the  end  of  the  wood  they  lingered;  it  was  hard 
indeed  to  part.  But  when  the  church  clock  struck 
twelve  she  hurried  away. 

James  Whitaker  came  back  to  the  Abbey  very  slow- 
ly. His  mind  was  still  in  a  whirl  from  the  emotional 
explosion  which  had  upturned  the  very  depths  of  his 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  193 

being.  He  was  aware  that  he  had  beyond  measure 
complicated  his  already  very  difficult  position ;  but  none 
the  less,  his  strongest  feeling  was  a  great  exultation. 
The  future  was  black  enough ;  but  he  would  not  let  its 
blackness  trouble  him.  He  abandoned  himself  to 
memories  of  Elizabeth. 

They  would  not  let  him  sleep.  It  was  a  long  while 
before  his  exultation  died  down;  and  he  began  to 
face  the  new  situation.  It  was  new,  wholly  new.  The 
sudden  violent  outburst  of  his  passion  had  wholly  re- 
moved their  love  affair  from  the  region  of  light  loves. 
He  had  won  from  Elizabeth  a  response  to  that  pas- 
sion; and  he  had  incurred  heavy  obligations  toward 
her.  He  had  given  her  rights  beside  which  he  felt 
the  rights  of  his  unloved  and  unloving  wife  to  be 
shadowy.  To  desert  her  forthwith  would  be  beyond 
words  shameful. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  could  not  see  what  he  would 
gain  by  staying.  He  could  not  remain  Duke  of  Lan- 
chester:  that  was  out  of  the  question.  He  could  not 
marry  Elizabeth,  at  any  rate  as  long  as  Millicent  was 
alive;  and  she  might  1'ive  another  half  century.  If 
ever  any  one  was  in  a  blind  alley! 

He  found  some  relief  in  damning  Lamplow  for  his 
delay  about  the  contracts;  and  then,  ungratefully,  he 
cursed  the  voluptuous  life  he  had  been  leading,  and 
the  stimulation  of  Lady  Cubbington  and  Lady  Middle- 
more  which  had  so  sapped  his  domesticated  nature  as 
to  render  him  incapable  of  keeping  his  resolve  to  leave 
the  Abbey  on  the  terms,  the  ostensible  terms  at  any 
rate,  of  a  mere  flirtation  with  Elizabeth. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHEN  at  last  he  fell  asleep   he    slept   soundly 
enough;  but  he  awoke  with  his  perplexity  of 
the  night  no  whit  lessened.    It  did  not  spoil  his  break- 
fast, though  it  lessened  his  enjoyment  of  it  by  diverting 
from  it  his  full  attention. 

He  learned  from  Jenkinson  that  Lord  Edward  Bed- 
dard  was  wont  to  arrive  at  the  Abbey  about  noon. 
That  was  satisfactory,  for  it  would  give  him  an  hour 
with  Elizabeth  before  the  dangerous  and  possibly  fate- 
ful meeting.  As  he  was  finishing  his  breakfast,  a  foot- 
man brought  a  message  from  Mr.  Brinkman  asking 
if  he  might  see  him  on  a  matter  of  importance.  He 
sent  word  that  he  would  come  to  him  in  his  office ;  and 
after  breakfast  he  went. 

Mr.  Brinkman  rose  at  his  entrance  and  washed  his 
hands  at  him  as  he  bade  him  good  morning. 

"Good  morning.  What  is  it?"  growled  James 
.Whitaker. 

"It's  about  your  racing-stable,  your  Grace.  We  ar- 
ranged, you  know,  that  it  should  be  sold  by  auction; 
and  I  was  taking  steps  to  carry  out  that  arrangement. 
But  an  opportunity  has  arisen  for  selling  it  by  private 
contract.  Sir  Otto  Bernstein,  hearing,  I  suppose,  that 
you  were  selling  it,  has  made  an  offer  of  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars  for  it,  lock,  stock  and  barrel." 

194 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  195 

This  was  indeed  good  news,  for  in  the  short  time 
at  his  disposal  James  Whitaker  had  not  hoped  to  be 
able  to  get  rid  of  the  stable,  eager  as  he  was  to  do  so ; 
and  he  had  been  sure  that  his  successor  would  undo 
any  arrangement  he  mighbmake  to  sell  it  by  auction. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind,  therefore,  that  he  must  be 
content  with  draining  and  rebuilding  Little  Lan- 
chester.  Now,  he  could  probably  make  certain  of  get- 
ting rid  of  the  stable  too. 

But  he  showed  no  pleasure  at  the  news ;  he  scowled 
and  said : 

"That  infernal  outsider?" 

The  breath  of  opposition  stimulated  Mr.  Brinkman; 
his  little  eyes  sparkled ;  his  nose  reddened ;  and  wash- 
ing his  hands  furiously,  he  grew  almost  eloquent  in 
urging  his  employer  to  accept  the  offer.  He  declared 
that  the  horses  might,  at  auction,  sell  for  a  thousand 
or  two  more ;  but  then  they  were  quite  as  likely  to  sell 
for  a  thousand  or  two  less.  In  any  case,  there  was  no 
security  that  they  would  not  fall  into  the  hands  of  out- 
siders. 

James  Whitaker  listened  to  him,  scowling;  but  in 
the  end  he  let  his  face  clear,  and  growled : 

"All  right.  Have  it  your  own  way.  But  I  don't 
want  a  lot  of  trouble  and  bother  about  it.  Write  a 
letter  accepting  the  offer  at  once  for  me  to  sign;  and 
then  draw  up  a  deed  for  me  to  sign  when  I  come  in, 
so  that  you  can  put  the  sale  through  without  bothering 
me  any  more  about  it.  Can  you  do  that?" 

"Certainly,  your  Grace,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Brink- 
man, beaming  at  getting  his  way. 


196  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

Forthwith  he  wrote  the  letter;  and  James  Whit- 
aker  signed  it  glumly.  But  as  he  came  out  of  the 
office  he  smiled  a  smile  of  great  content.  He  felt  that 
in  removing  from  the  turf  one  of  its  oldest  and  most 
respected  patrons  he  had  done  it  what  harm  he  could. 
He  went  to  meet  Elizabeth  in  excellent  spirits,  his 
coming  dangerous  meeting  with  his  successor  for  the 
while  forgotten. 

Both  he  and  Elizabeth  were  at  first  a  little  shy, 
meeting  on  this  lower  level  of  emotion  after  their  ex- 
altation of  the  night  before.  But  their  shyness  soon 
vanished  as  nearness  rekindled  the  flame.  The  eyes 
of  Elizabeth  were  not,  indeed,  so  wonderful  and  mys- 
terious as  they  had  been  in  the  moonlight;  but  fine 
candid  eyes,  they  had  their  beauty  of  the  day. 

He  felt  bound  to  kiss  her  (he  must  play  the  part  into 
which  his  passion  had  thrust  him),  and  she  did  not  find 
that  the  daylight  at  all  lessened  the  fervor  of  his  lips. 

Presently  he  said,  carelessly  enough:  "I've  got  to 
get  back  by  twelve,  unfortunately.  I'm  expecting  my 
brother." 

"Is  he  coming  to  stay  at  the  Abbey?"  she  said, 
frowning  at  the  thought  of  him.  "We  shan't  be  able 
to  see  so  much  of  each  other." 

"I  shan't  let  him  interfere  with  us,"  he  said  firmly. 

She  smiled;  and  then  she  said:  "How  terrified 
you'd  be,  if  you  weren't  really  the  duke !" 

"Oh,  for  anything  you  know,  my  heart  may  be  in 
my  boots." 

"It  isn't.    I  can  feel  it  beating,"  she  said  confidently. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  197 

"It's  your  own  you  feel,"  he  said. 

In  truth  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  their  heart- 
beats, so  close  together  were  they  sitting. 

He  had  no  doubt  that  he  had  wholly  cleared  her 
mind  of  any  doubt  that  he  was  the  duke.  He  felt 
bound  to  pretend  to  himself  that  he  wished  he  had  not, 
for  had  she  continued  to  doubt  she  might  not  have  let 
herself  grow  so  fond  of  him.  In  truth,  he  would  not 
on  any  account  have  had  her  less  fond. 

They  parted,  reluctantly,  at  a  few  minutes  past 
twelve ;  and  he  walked  slowly  up  to  the  Abbey,  bracing 
himself  for  the  meeting  with  his  detested  successor. 
He  had  a  foreboding  that  it  would  not  go  well,  that 
his  luck  had  been  too  good  to  last ;  and  the  thought  of 
trouble  from  Lord  Edward  Beddard  set  him  scowling 
very  darkly.  It  was  not  only  that  he  had  to  give 
up  to  him  this  pleasant  life ;  but  he  was  the  man  who 
had  tried  to  kiss  Elizabeth,  who  might  even,  when  he 
had  gone,  try  to  marry  her.  He  detested  him  even 
more  heartily  on  this  account  than  he  detested  him  for 
ousting  him  from  his  dukedom.  He  came  on  to  the 
terrace  not  so  much  ready  as  eager  for  the  struggle, 
his  combative  spirit  on  edge.  He  would  not  merely 
bluff  his  opponent  out:  if  he  were  too  annoying, -he 
would  give  him  the  hammering  of  a  lifetime.  To  think 
that  the  blackguard  had  tried  to  kiss  Elizabeth! 

He  came  on  to  the  terrace  before  the  Abbey,  frown- 
ing, hunched  together,  with  the  air  almost  of  a  beast 
crouching  to  spring.  He  walked  toward  the  big  doors 
and  had  almost  reached  them,  when  a  voice  called 


i98  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Hallo,  John!"  from  the  dining-room,  and  a  man 
came  out  of  one  of  the  long  windows,  carrying  a 
tumbler  in  one  hand  and  a  cigar  in  the  other. 

"How  are  you,  old  chap?"  he  said  in  a  gurgling 
oily  voice ;  and  he  put  the  cigar  in  his  mouth  and  held 
out  his  hand. 

"How  are  you?"  growled  James  Whitaker,  gazing 
at  him  with  all  his  eyes. 

He  saw  a  very  thick-set,  bull-necked  man,  a  little 
shorter  than  himself,  black-haired,  with  brown  eyes 
to  which  the  bloodshot  whites  gave  a  reddish  hue, 
with  thick  fleshy  lips,  parted  as  if  he  were  afflicted  by 
adenoids,  and  with  a  heavy  jowl. 

With  something  of  a  shock  he  knew  that,  some- 
where or  other  (he  could  not  remember  where)  he  had 
seen  that  repulsive  face  before. 

"You  don't  look  very  cheery,"  said  Lord  Edward 
Beddard  with  a  gurgling  chuckle;  and  he  pressed 
James  Whitaker's  limp  hand  with  a  fat  soft  hand,  un- 
pleasantly hot  and  dry. 

"How  are  you  after  being  struck  by  lightning?"  he 
went  on  in  a  tone  of  resolute  pleasantness.  "I  read 
about  it  in  the  papers,  and  I  gathered  that  you  must 
have  had  a  devilish  narrow  shave.  But  I  met  Berk- 
eley ;  and  he  told  me  that  he  had  been  playing  baccarat 
with  you  at  the  Cubbingtons'  and  you  were  as  right  as 
rain." 

"He  was  wrong,  then,"  growled  James  Whitaker. 
"My  right  arm  is  still  stiff  and  so  are  my  talking 
muscles ;  and  I  never  know  what  I'm  going  to  remem- 
ber and  what  I'm  not." 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  199 

As  he  was  speaking  he  saw  a  look  of  perplexity  come 
into  Lord  Edward's  face,  the  very  look  which  had 
come  into  the  face  of  Lady  Middlemore;  and  he 
braced  himself. 

Lord  Edward  bent  forward,  peering  at  him.  James 
Whitaker  affected  to  perceive  nothing,  turned  to  the 
left  and  began  to  stroll  along  the  front  of  the  Abbey. 
Lord  Edward  kept  pace  with  him,  staring  at  him  side- 
wise.  Mechanically  he  raised  the  glass  he  was  carry- 
ing to  his  lips,  drained  it  and  stared  again. 

James  Whitaker  said  nothing.  The  searching  eyes 
gave  him  the  unpleasant  sensation  that  they  were  bor- 
ing through  the  mask  of  his  flesh  to  the  man  beneath. 
He  bent  all  his  energy  to  keeping  his  face  impassive, 
unconcerned,  unaware.  He  felt  that  he  was  succeeding 
with  his  face :  it  was  rigid :  but  that  his  eyes  were  not 
so  well  under  control.  His  eyelids  flickered ;  and  then 
they  flickered  again. 

"My — my — goodness !"  said  Lord  Edward  Beddard 
faintly. 

James  Whitaker  strolled  on,  still  impassive,  and 
turned  the  corner  of  the  Abbey.  Lord  Edward  Bed- 
dard dropped  the  glass,  gripped  his  arm  and  said 
thickly : 

''Here— I  say!" 

James  Whitaker  turned  and  met  the  gaze  of  his  ex- 
cited, burning  eyes  full  and  square.  There  was  a  dull 
dangerous  glow  in  his  own. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  growled;  and  he  shook 
the  fat  hand  from  his  arm  very  roughly. 

"The  matter,  by  God!"  cried  Lord  Edward  Beddard 


200  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

in  a  high  wheezy  voice.  "Why — why — it  isn't  Lan- 
chester!  You're  not  Lanchester  at  all!" 

"You're  drunk,"  growled  James  Whitaker;  and  in- 
tent as  he  was  on  the  matter  in  hand,  he  heard  a  win- 
dow pushed  up  near  them. 

"Drunk  be  damned !  You're  not  Lanchester !  You're 
an  impostor!  Damn  it!  I  know!  I  know!  You're 
that  damned  broker!" 

On  his  words  the  vision  of  a  sale  at  Christie's  rose 
before  James  Whitaker's  mind,  and  the  face  of  the 
ugly  red- faced  brute  who  had  stared  and  stared  at 
him.  That  ugly  red- faced  brute  was  Lord  Edward 
Beddard. 

With  this  discovery  came  the  realization  of  the  ex- 
tent of  his  danger :  here  was  a  man  who  could  point  the 
way  to  the  duke's  double,  to  James  Whitaker. 

"If  you're  not  drunk,  you're  mad,"  he  growled,  and 
he  thrust  his  fierce  scowling  face  forward  into  that 
of  Lord  Edward  Beddard.  He  had  to  thrust  his  hands 
deeper  into  his  pockets  not  to  hit  it. 

"M-m-mad?  D-d-drunk?"  wheezed  Lord  Edward 
Beddard,  and  he  drew  sharply  back  from  that  savage 
mask.  "I — I — I'll  damned  well  show  you,  you  infer- 
nal impostor !" 

His  crimson  face  was  working  wildly  as  wonder  and 
rage  and  joy  chased  one  another  across  it. 

"You  are  drunk!"  cried  James  Whitaker. 

Lord  Edward  Beddard  coughed  oddly,  and  James 
Whitaker's  glaring  eyes  saw  a  darker,  purple  stain 
ousting  the  crimson  from  his  face,  as  he  clutched  at  his 
head  with  both  hands ;  his  blood-shot  eyes  rolled  in  their 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  201 

sockets,  and  then  stuck  with  only  the  whites  show- 
ing; he  uttered  another  snorting  cough,  staggered 
jerkily  in  a  half  circle,  fell  heavily  on  his  back,  writhed 
for  perhaps  ten  seconds,  and  lay  still,  snoring  ster- 
torously. 

James  Whitaker  stood  and  stared  down  at  him 
blankly,  utterly  taken  aback.  Then  he  recovered, 
dropped  on  one  knee,  and  unfastened  slowly,  with 
bungling  fingers,  the  fallen  man's  collar  and  shirt.  It 
did  not  ease  the  stertorous  snoring. 

James  \yhitaker  gazed  round  helplessly  and  saw,  at 
the  open  window  of  his  office  twenty  yards  away,  Mr. 
Brinkman  staring  with  parted  lips.  On  the  instant  it 
flashed  on  him  that  the  steward  had  heard  every  word 
they  had  uttered !  But  he  roared  at  him : 

"Don't  stand  staring  there  like  a  stuck  pig!  Fetch 
Jenkinson!  Send  a  footman  for  Doctor  Arbuthnot! 
Get  on,  you  blockhead!  Every  minute  may  be  pre- 
cious !" 

Mr.  Brinkman  disappeared  from  the  window ;  James 
Whitaker  rose  and  stared  down  on  his  stricken  ad- 
versary. He  did  not  know  what  to  do;  he  was  over- 
whelmed by  surprise  at  this  ending  of  their  interview. 
Then  Jenkinson  and  a  footman  came,  running. 

Jenkinson  stopped,  bent  down,  looked  at  the  snor- 
ing man  and  cried : 

"It's  come,  your  Grace!  Your  Grace  always  said 
it  would !" 

"What's  come?"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"Apoplexy,  your  Grace.  Just  like  his  poor  grand- 
father— only  so  much  younger." 


202  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Well,  hurry  up !  Don't  stand  jabbering  there !  Get 
him  to  bed !  Have  you  sent  for  the  doctor  ?" 

"Mr.  Brinkman's  sending  Taylor  for  him,  your 
Grace." 

On  his  words  the  steward  came  panting  round  the 
corner  of  the  building.  His  face  was  flushed,  his  eyes 
were  sparkling.  He  had  nothing  of  the  air  of  a  man 
whose  employer's  brother  had  just  been  stricken  with 
apoplexy  under  his  eyes.  It  was  plain  to  James  Whit- 
aker  that  not  only  had  he  heard  what  they  had  said, 
but  that  he  had  fully  grasped  its  importance,;  that  even 
now  he  was  reckoning  the  advantages  to  be  drawn 
from  it. 

"Fetch  a  couple  of  gardeners,  Mr.  Brinkman!  Be 
sharp!"  he  growled  at  him. 

For  a  breath  the  steward  hesitated;  then  he  went. 

They  soon  carried  Lord  Edward  Beddard,  still  snor- 
ing stertorously,  to  a  bedroom,  and  Jenkinson  and 
Tomkins  set  about  undressing  him.  James  Whitaker 
left  them  to  it.  As  he  went  down  the  stairs  he  met 
Doctor  Arbuthnot  hurrying  up  them. 

"Jenkinson  says  it's  apoplexy,"  he  said. 

"I  always  expected  it!"  cried  the  doctor,  hurrying 
on. 

James  Whitaker  went  down  into  the  garden  (he  felt 
that  he  needed  plenty  of  air)  and  walked  up  and  down 
considering  this  change  in  the  situation.  It  had  become 
so  much  more  dangerous  since  Lord  Edward  Beddard 
had  seen  him  at  Christie's.  The  police  would  have 
little  difficulty  in  tracing  him  to  his  Hammersmith 
shop;  they  would  only  have  to  show  the  late  Duke 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  203 

of  Lanchester's  portrait  to  one  of  the  clerks  at  Chris- 
tie's. His  dealings  with  the  firm  had  not  been  ex- 
tensive, but  there  had  been  dealings  enough  in  the 
days  when  he  was  buying  for  his  father-in-law. 

Then  there  was  the  matter  of  Brinkman.  He  did 
not  know  what  to  expect  from  that  little  ferret.  Prob- 
ably he  would  help  Lord  Edward  Beddard;  indeed, 
it  was  almost  certain  that  he  would — unless  he  could 
see  his  way  to  making  a  greater  profit  by  helping  him 
retain  the  title  and  estates.  That  did  not  matter  since 
he  did  not  propose  to  retain  them.  He  must  give  all 
his  mind  to  devising  some  means  of  escaping  safely. 

He  fixed  his  mind  on  the  discovering  of  those  means, 
and  walked  up  and  down,  frowning  deeply  as  he 
cudgeled  his  brains.  At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  of  absorbed  concentration  on  the  matter,  he  was 
beginning  to  see  that  he  must  not  only  leave  England, 
but  that  he  must  grow  a  beard  and  mustache  to  dis- 
guise himself;  and  he  wished  that  the  upper  part  of 
his  face  were  more  commonplace.  A  beard  and 
mustache  were  hardly  disguise  enough  for  him.  Then 
Doctor  Arbuthnot  came  out  of  the  Abbey,  wearing 
a  very  grave  air. 

As  he  drew  near  James  Whitaker,  he  shook  his 
head,  and  said  in  a  very  mournful  tone:  "I'm  afraid 
I  can  give  you  no  hope,  your  Grace.  It's  only  a  mat- 
ter of  hours." 

"Good  God!  You  don't  mean  that!"  cried  James 
Whitaker  in  unaffected  astonishment. 

Oddly  enough,  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  Lord 
Edward  Beddard's  stroke  might  prove  fatal. 


204  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"I  do.     It's  only  a  matter  of  hours,  as  I  say." 

James  Whitaker  stared  at  him,  weighing  this  new 
development,  a  dozen  ideas  thronging  his  mind. 

"Will  he  recover  consciousness?"  he  said. 

"Not  a  chance  of  it,"  said  Doctor  Arbuthnot  with 
conviction. 

"Then  we  shan't  know  his  last  wishes,  or  anything," 
said  James  Whitaker,  concealing  his  immense  relief 
at  this  grateful  news. 

"No.  But  I  was  thinking  that  your  Grace  might 
like  a  second  opinion." 

"No — no.  But  yes — it's  always  more  satisfactory. 
Will  you  send  Hibbert  to  Lanchester  for  some  one? 
You  know  the  best  man  to  have." 

"Doctor  Marriott,"  said  Doctor  Arbuthnot. 

He  went  very  briskly  to  despatch  the  car. 

He  left  James  Whitaker  somewhat  shocked  by  this 
intervention  of  death  in  his  affairs.  He  could  not, 
indeed,  feel  grieved  at  hearing  that  Lord  Edward 
Beddard  was  doomed;  but  after  all  it  was  such  a  little 
while  since  this  wretched  man  was  enjoying  that  cigar 
and  that  whisky  and  soda  with  so  plain  and  full- 
blooded  an  enjoyment. 

He  pondered  the  curious  fact  that  his  coming  into 
contact  with  the  members  of  the  family  had  been,  as 
it  were,  the  signal  for  their  death.  Truly  the  co- 
incidence was  indeed  odd;  the  kind  of  coincidence 
which  would  give  a  dabbler  in  the  occult  food  for 
endless  speculation.  Millicent,  for  example,  would 
never  tire  of  discussing  it,  should  she  hear  of  it.  He 
would  take  care  that  she  never  did.  Such  coincidences, 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  205 

not  a  whit  dissimilar  really,  for  all  that  they  were  less 
startling,  were  always  occurring.  Yet  he  could  not 
but  feel  that  it  looked  as  if  Providence  were  bent  on 
thrusting  him  into  the  position  of  Duke  of  Lanchester. 

He  paced  restlessly  up  and  down  the  lawn,  consid- 
ering the  new  situation.  Then  he  went  up  to  his 
smoking-room  and  tried  to  sit  quietly  and  smoke.  He 
could  not:  Lord  Edward  Beddard's  purple  face  kept 
rising  before  his  mind,  keeping  his  nerves  on  edge. 
Then  he  bethought  himself  that  he  had  instructed 
Brinkman  to  draw  up  a  deed  selling  the  racing-stable, 
and  wondered  whether  he  had  carried  out  the  instruc- 
tion. Then  he  thought  that  it  would  be  a  diversion 
to  go  to  Brinkman  and  learn  what  his  attitude  was. 
Now  that  Lord  Edward  Beddard  could  never  put  any 
one  in  the  way  of  tracing  him  to  the  Hammersmith 
shop  he  had  little  fear  of  the  steward. 

When  he  came  into  the  office  Mr.  Brinkman  gazed 
up  at  him  with  a  startled  air,  and  did  not,  as  was 
his  custom,  rise  and  wash  his  hands  at  him.  Then  his 
eyes  filled  with  a  challenge. 

"That  deed?"  growled  James  Whitaker.  "Is  it 
finished?" 

The  steward  tried  to  meet  his  lowering  eyes,  but 
could  not. 

"I — I  began  it.     B-b-but  I  didn't  go  on." 

"Why  not?"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"I  d-d-didn't  know  whether  it  would  b-b-be  wanted 
after  all." 

"Why  shouldn't  it  be  wanted?"  growled  James 
[Whitaker  in  a  very  threatening  tone. 


206  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"I  d-d-didn't  know.  I  thought — Lord  Edward 
b-b-being  so  ill,"  stammered  the  steward. 

He  had  grown  somewhat  pale  under  James  Whit- 
aker's  menacing  glare. 

"What  business  have  you  to  think?"  roared  James 
Whitaker.  "Get  on  with  it  at  once !" 

The  steward  jumped  in  his  chair  and  muttered : 
"Very  well,  your — very  well!" 

James  Whitaker  glowered  at  him  fiercely  for  half 
a  minute,  then  went  out  of  the  office,  slamming  the 
door  behind  him.  There  was  now  no  reason  to  make 
haste  to  sell  the  racing-stable,  but  he  wished  to  make  it 
quite  clear  to  Brinkman  that  if  he  proposed  to  make 
trouble  on  the  strength  of  what  he  had  overheard  he 
would  not  find  him  shrinking  from  it. 

He  had,  indeed,  shaken  the  steward.  He  left  him 
almost  inclined  to  disbelieve  his  ears,  sure  as  he  was 
that  he  had  heard  Lord  Edward  Beddard  call  the 
duke  a  damned  impostor.  Before  he  had  opened  it 
wider  the  window  of  his  office  had  been  open ;  and  he 
had  lost  scarcely  a  word  of  their  talk.  Moreover,  he 
had  been  pondering  the  matter  with  all  his  mind  since 
he  had  come  back  from  helping  to  carry  the  stricken 
man  up  to  his  bedroom,  and  he  perceived  that  many 
circumstances  manifestly  bore  out  Lord  Edward  Bed- 
dard's  assertion:  the  pseudo-duke's  pretended  loss  of 
memory,  the  amazing  change,  far  beyond  the  power 
of  any  lightning-stroke,  in  his  character;  his  sudden 
interest  in  the  laborers  on  the  estate ;  his  equally  sud- 
den loss  of  interest  in  the  turf  shown  by  his  determina- 
tion to  sell  the  racing-stable. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  207 

No:  no  lightning-stroke  could  have  so  changed  the 
duke.  .  .  .  His  love  of  racing  had  been  fully  as 
great  as  his  dislike  of  the  agricultural  laborer.  The 
steward  felt  that  he  must  have  been  blind  not  to  have 
perceived  this  amazing  fraud  before  Lord  Edward 
Beddard  opened  his  eyes  to  it. 

But  the  likeness.  .  .  .  The  extraordinary  like- 
ness in  face,  and  figure,  and  manner,  in  everything 
but  voice.  .  .  .  Of  course!  That  hoarse  growl- 
ing voice,  that  pretense  that  the  throat  muscles  were 
stiff.  .  .  .  That  was  another  damning  fact. 
.  .  .  It  must  have  been  from  the  man's  voice  that 
Lord  Edward  Beddard  had  recognized  that  he  was 
not  the  duke.  .  .  .  He  ought  to  have  recognized 
it  too.  .  .  .  And  not  only  the  stiffness  of  the 
throat  muscles,  but  also  the  stiffness  of  the  right  arm. 
.  .  .  The  duke  had  not  mounted  a  horse  or  touched 
a  billiard  cue  since  the  lightning-stroke ! 

But  who  was  the  man?  .  .  .  Lord  Edward 
Beddard  had  recognized  him.  .  .  .  He  had  recog- 
nized him  as  a  stockbroker.  .  .  .  There  was  some 
family  mystery  here.  .  .  .  Yes;  the  fellow  was 
a  brother  of  the  duke  and  Lord  Edward.  .  .  .  On 
the  wrong  side  of  the  blanket.  .  .  .  That  must 
be  it.  ...  That  would  explain  the  likeness. 
.  .  .  The  duke's  father  must  have  bought  him  a  seat 
on  the  Stock  Exchange.  .  .  .  That  was  where  he 
must  seek  for  traces  of  him  and  learn  who  he  was. 
.  .  .  Doubtless  the  duke  had  known  about  him  as 
well  as  Lord  Edward  Beddard. 

But  where  was  the  duke?     .     .     .     Surely  he  had 


208  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

not  disappeared  of  his  own  free  will.  ...  It 
was  the  last  thing  he  was  likely  to  do.  .  .  .  He 
had  always  shown  the  strongest  sense  of  his  import- 
ance as  Duke  of  Lanchester.  .  .  .  There  must 
have  been  foul  play.  .  .  .  This  illegitimate  stock- 
broker must  have  made  away  with  the  duke.  .  .'  . 
But  how  and  where? 

Mr.  Brinkman  was  trying  to  recall  exactly  the 
events  of  the  day  on  which  the  duke  had  been  struck 
by  lightning,  when  James  Whitaker  descended  on 
him  and  hectored  him  into  finishing  drawing  up  the 
deed.  As  he  did  it  he  struggled  to  get  clearly  in  his 
mind  all  the  facts  he  had  heard  about  the  duke's  light- 
ning-stroke. James  Whitaker's  behavior  had  con- 
firmed him  in  his  belief  that  if  he  was  not  the  duke, 
he  was  undoubtedly  his  brother,  an  unscrupulous,  fero- 
cious and  illegitimate  stockbroker.  But  he  could  have 
wished  that  the  confirmation  had  come  in  gentler 
guise :  James  Whitaker's  care-free  brutality  had  indeed 
stamped  him  as  a  man  with  whom  it  was  dangerous 
to  meddle.  But  Mr.  Brinkman  had  recognized  that 
danger  earlier,  and  in  spite  of  it  he  congratulated  him- 
self on  the  fortunate  interposition  of  Providence 
which  had  caused  him  to  overhear  that  pregnant  con- 
versation just  before  apoplexy  closed  forever  the  lips 
of  Lord  Edward  Beddard. 

But  where  was  the  duke  ?  Or  rather  where  was  the 
duke's  body?  Where  had  this  brutal  and  ferocious 
stockbroker  concealed  it  when  he  made  away  with 
him? 


CHAPTER  XIII 

JAMES  WHITAKER  came  to  his  lunch  filled  with 
the  comfortable  conviction  that  in  treating  him 
like  a  dog  he  had  found  the  right  attitude  toward 
Brinkman.  He  was  therefore  eating  his  oeufs  en  co- 
cotte  with  a  natural  high  satisfaction,  when  he  remem- 
bered the  condition  of  Lord  Edward  Beddard,  and  at 
once  felt  that  he  ought  not  to  be  enjoying  his  lunch 
with  that  unfortunate  man  dying  on  the  floor  above 
him,  that  at  such  a  juncture,  indeed,  enjoyment  of  any 
kind  was  unseemly.  But  his  appetite  was  in  such  a 
healthy  state  that  he  found  it  quite  impossible  not  to 
enjoy  his  lunch,  and  was  forced  to  content  himself 
with  assuming  an  appropriate,  mournful  air,  like  that 
which  Jenkinson  was  wearing.  Now  and  again,  re- 
membering the  character  of  the  late  duke,  he  delib- 
erately made  it  less  mournful,  for  he  feared  lest  he 
might  overdo  it. 

He  was  smoking  a  Corona  after  lunch  with  his  usual 
satisfaction,  since  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
he  had  no  control  over  his  palate,  when  Mr.  Lamplow 
and  Judson,  the  Lanchester  builder,  arrived  with  the 
contract  for  draining  and  rebuilding  Little  Lanchester. 
He  told  Jenkinson  to  take  them  to  the  steward's  office, 
and  there  he  read,  discussed,  approved  and  signed  the 

209 


210  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

contract.  Then  he  bade  them  draw  up  like  contracts 
for  draining  and  rebuilding  Wodden,  Chigleigh  and 
Gant.  They  took  their  leave  with  faces  beaming  at 
the  prospect  of  so  much  work. 

It  had  not  escaped  James  Whitaker's  notice  that 
Brinkman  had  been  very  gloomy  throughout  the  whole 
proceeding,  that  he  had  actually  squirmed  at  the  order 
for  more  contracts,  and  that  he  was  gloomy  still.  He 
thought  it  an  excellent  occasion  to  treat  him  once 
more  like  a  dog. 

"Well,  we're  getting  on,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  grati- 
fication. "With  four  model  villages  on  the  estate, 
the  laborers  will  be  better  off  than  they  have  been  for 
generations." 

Mr.  Brinkman's  frown  was  almost  a  scowl,  and  he 
said  in  a  very  sour  tone :  "If  you  think  you're  going 
to  get  any  thanks  from  them — " 

"I  don't,"  growled  James  Whitaker.  "If  I  get  any 
thanks  from  any  one,  it  will  be  from  their  grand- 
children." 

Mr.  Brinkman's  eyes  opened  wide,  and  James  Whit- 
aker saw  that  he  had  shown  more  knowledge,  or  more 
intelligence,  than  his  predecessor  had  possessed. 

"At  any  rate,  the  newspapers  say  that  when  you 
improve  the  condition  of  the  laborer  you  improve  the 
quality  of  his  work,"  he  said. 

"Yes!  But  who  for?"  cried  the  steward  bitterly. 
"For  the  tenants — not  for — for — us!" 

James  Whitaker  marked  that  he  had  avoided  say- 
ing that  he  was  not  improving  it  for  himself,  and  he 
also  marked  that  he  had  not  once  uttered  the  words 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  211 

"Your  Grace" — words  which  had  been  wont  to  come 
from  his  lips  with  a  frequency  quite  needless. 

But  he  said  quietly:  "Well,  we  can  always  raise 
the  rents,  if  we  think  it  fair." 

"You'll  find  yourself  unpopular  enough  without 
doing  that.  There  isn't  a  landowner  in  the  county  who 
won't  resent  these  improvements." 

"Oh,  there  must  be  some  who  house  their  laborers 
decently,"  said  James  Whitaker. 

"Not  on  this  side  of  the  county!"  snapped  the 
steward.  Then,  correcting  himself,  he  added  hastily: 
"Decently:  yes.  They  house  them  as  they've  been 
housed  for  generations.  But  they  don't  build  extrava- 
gant model  cottages  for  them.  It's  just  waste." 

"Then  it's  time  that  some  one  set  them  an  example," 
said  James  Whitaker  carelessly ;  then,  frowning  at  the 
steward,  he  growled :  "It's  a  devilish  odd  thing  how  a 
man  in  your  position  always  tries  to  keep  the  wretched 
beggars  down." 

"I  want  to  keep  them  in  their  place — the  place 
they're  fitted  for,"  cried  Mr.  Brinkman  in  a  somewhat 
lofty  tone. 

"You  want  to  keep  them  in  pig-sties,  you  mean," 
growled  James  Whitaker.  "Anyhow,  it's  a  good  thing 
that  the  two  hundred  thousand  for  that  racing-stable 
gives  me  plenty  of  money  to  make  the  improvements, 
and  something  over." 

As  he  expected,  the  steward  flamed  up  and  cried 
even  more  hotly:  "Selling  the  stable  won't  mend 
matters!  It'll  make  the  county  more  furious  than 
ever!" 


212  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"The  county  can  burst  itself  if  it  likes,"  said  James 
Whitaker  scornfully. 

"It's  all  very  well  to  talk  like  that,  but  look  at  the 
loss  of  prestige!"  cried  the  steward.  "The  Dukes  of 
Lanchester  have  always  been  English  country  gentle- 
men— leaders  of  sport — sound  Tories — dead  against 
newfangled  ideas!  The  county  won't  stand  these 
changes." 

"Did  you  ever  know  me  to  give  a  damn  for  the 
county?"  growled  James  Whitaker  scornfully. 

Mr.  Brinkman  was  taken  aback.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
as  James  Whitaker  had  hoped  when  he  said  it,  the 
late  duke  never  had  given  a  damn  for  the  county,  and 
he  had  made  no  secret  of  that  fact. 

"It  won't  stand  it — you  know  it  won't,"  said  Mr. 
Brinkman  weakly. 

"But  what's  it  going  to  do  about  it  ?"  growled  James 
Whitaker. 

Mr.  Brinkman  gazed  at  him  rather  helplessly, 
opened  his  mouth  and  shut  it  again. 

"You're  all  wrong  about  the  county,"  growled  James 
Whitaker.  "It  won't  care.  You  stick  at  the  Abbey 
here  and  you  never  learn  anything.  The  county  has 
stopped  caring  about  that  kind  of  thing.  All  it  cares 
about  is  amusing  itself." 

As  soon  as  he  had  uttered  the  words  he  was  sur- 
prised at  himself.  They  were  the  final  expression,  the 
summing-up  of  the  impressions  Lady  Cubbington  and 
her  circle  had  made  on  him;  and  now  that  he  had 
pronounced  it  he  believed  it  to  be  a  very  sound  and 
accurate  judgment  of  their  attitude  to  life. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  213 

"OK,  yes:  those  with  investments  bringing  in  big 
incomes,  and  those  who  let  their  places  are  like  that. 
But  I'm  not  talking  about  them.  I'm  talking  about 
those  whose  incomes  come  from  the  land,  and  are  ever 
so  much  smaller  than  they  used  to  be.  They'll  resent 
these  cottages  bitterly — you'll  see,"  said  the  steward. 

"The  backwoodsmen!"  sneered  James  Whitaker. 
".What  do  they  matter  to  me?" 

Again  Mr.  Brinkman  was  taken  aback.  The  words 
and  the  air  were  in  the  manner  of  the  duke ;  only  the 
voice  was  rougher  and  harsher.  But  he  could  not  be- 
lieve that  it  was  the  duke,  and  he  said  in  a  tone  of 
bitter  irritation: 

"Well,  I've  warned  you.  You'll  destroy  the  prestige 
of  the  family  for  the  next  ten  years." 

James  Whitaker  could  not  permit  that  tone.  Indeed, 
he  had  brought  the  steward  to  the  point  where  he 
wanted  him.  He  stepped  nearer  to  him,  and  leaning 
forward,  almost  over  him,  he  roared : 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  throwing  cold 
water  on  my  hobbies?  Do  you  think  I  pay  an  infernal, 
little  pettifogging  whippersnapper  like  you  to  put  ob- 
stacles in  the  way  of  my  doing  what  I  want  to  ?" 

At  the  sudden  roaring  violence  Mr.  Brinkman  paled 
and  began  to  tremble.  It  shook  his  nerves. 

"N-n-no.    Of  c-c-course  not !"  he  stammered. 

"Then  just  drop  it!"  roared  James  Whitaker,  yet 
more  loudly. 

Mr.  Brinkman  only  gasped.  James  Whitaker  glow- 
ered down  on  him. 

"You  keep  your  place !"  he  roared  again. 


214  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Y-y-yes,  your  Grace!"  squeaked  Mr.  Brinkman. 

James  Whitaker  glowered  down  at  him  for  half 
a  minute.  Then  he  went  slowly  out  of  the  office.  The 
"your  Grace"  pleased  him.  He  had  certainly  brought 
Mr.  Brinkman  where  he  wanted  him — at  any  rate  for 
the  time  being.  But  he  did  not  underrate  the  serious- 
ness of  Mr.  Brinkman's  discovery.  He  did  not  fear 
him  so  long  as  he  was  at  the  Abbey,  for  he  felt  that 
the  steward  was  not  quite  sure  that  he  was  not  the 
duke;  and  he  could  always  bully  him  into  abjectness. 
But  once  he  disappeared,  the  steward  would  be  sure; 
and  he  would  set  inquiries  afoot.  Who  could  say 
where  they  would  stop?  He  had  a  very  unpleasant, 
uneasy  feeling  that  he  was  trapped. 

When  he  had  slammed  the  door  behind  him,  Mr. 
Brinkman  put  his  elbows  on  his  desk,  laid  his  face  on 
his  hands  and  nearly  wept.  This  sudden  horrible 
violence  had  indeed  shaken  him.  It  was  quite  in  the 
manner  of  the  duke;  but  he  would  not  believe  that  it 
was  the  duke.  He  was  convinced  that  it  was  a  fero- 
cious and  illegitimate  stockbroker,  near  akin  to  the 
duke. 

If  only  he  could  find  proof  of  it!  There  was  a  for- 
tune in  it.  And  the  proof  must  be  somewhere  to  be 
found.  There  was,  indeed,  clearly  a  double  line  of 
proof;  he  must  find  the  duke's  body,  and  he  must 
establish  this  pseudo-duke's  identity  with  a  stock- 
broker who  had  lately  disappeared  from  his  usual 
haunts. 

With  regard  to  the  duke's  body,  it  was  probably  in 
the  wood.  The  story  of  his  supplanter  had  been  that 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  215 

he  had  been  struck  by  lightning  in  the  wood.  There 
he  had  evidently  met  and  murdered  and  buried  the 
duke.  Mr.  Brinkman  entertained  no  doubt  whatever 
that  he  had  murdered  him :  a  man  of  that  violent  fe- 
rocity would  not  stick  at  murder.  He  must  search  the 
wood. 

It  should  not,  on  the  other  hand,  be  difficult  to  estab- 
lish the  identity  of  the  supplanter  with  a  vanished 
stockbroker.  Four  days  in  the  city  of  London  with 
the  duke's  photograph  would  do  that. 

Mr.  Brinkman's  spirit  began  to  burn  higher  within 
him.  Here  was  El  Dorado  within  a  mile  of  him.  He 
shut  his  desk,  put  on  his  straw  hat  and  set  out  for  the 
wood. 

James  Whitaker  soon  lost  the  satisfaction  with 
which  he  had  come  out  of  the  office  in  a  faint  annoy- 
ance. He  had  been  unaware  that  while  he  had  the 
proper  contempt  for  the  obsequiousness  of  Brinkman, 
it  had  none  the  less  been  pleasant  and  soothing  to  him ; 
and  he  missed  it.  It  grew  clearer  and  clearer  to  him 
that  the  steward  was,  for  all  his  cowardice,  a  difficulty 
and  a  danger.  It  was  clear  that  he  could  not  now 
leave  the  Abbey  till  after  the  funeral  of  his  brother. 
He  began  to  think  that  it  would  not  be  safe  to  leave  it 
till  he  had  somehow  or  other  (he  could  not  at  all  see 
how)  drawn  Brinkman's  sting. 

For  a  while  he  walked  about  the  gardens;  then  he 
went  to  the  library  and  tried  to  read.  He  found  that 
he  could  not  keep  his  mind  on  a  book.  The  knowledge 
that  Lord  Edward  Beddard  was  dying  oppressed  him ; 
but  he  was  chiefly  restless  because  he  wanted  to  be 


2i6  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

with  Elizabeth.  Yet  he  felt  strongly  that  it  would 
be  in  the  highest  degree  indecorous  that  the  Duke  of 
Lanchester  should  be  philandering  with  a  pretty  girl 
on  the  banks  of  a  beautiful  stream  while  his  brother 
lay  dying  in  the  Abbey.  He  felt  also  that  in  the  actual 
circumstances  the  decorous  was  rather  silly.  But  it 
was  nearly  four  o'clock.  If  Elizabeth  had  come,  as 
usual,  at  three,  on  the  chance  of  his  meeting  her  at  the 
bridge,  she  had  gone  back  home  long  since. 

But  she  was  unlikely  to  have  come.  She  was  sure 
to  have  heard  of  Lord  Edward  Beddard's  apoplectic 
seizure,  and  would  not  expect  him.  He  felt  that  he 
ought  to  feel  less  annoyed  at  being  kept  from  her,  and 
more  kindly  to  the  dying  man  whom  he  had  so  suc- 
cessfully supplanted.  But  he  could  not.  The  fact  that 
the  dying  man  had  tried  to  kiss  Elizabeth  was  very 
present  in  his  mind ;  and  he  still  disliked  him  heartily. 

The  hours  dragged.  Twice  he  sent  Jenkinson  to 
inquire  whether  there  were  any  change  for  the  better 
in  the  sick  man's  condition.  There  was  not.  He  tried 
not  to  feel  thankful  to  hear  it.  Also  he  tried  not  to 
enjoy  his  dinner.  He  failed. 

After  dinner  he  went  out  into  the  moonlit  gardens, 
and  presently,  by  no  definite  act  of  will,  he  found  him- 
self on  the  bridge  in  the  park. 

Elizabeth  was  not  there ;  but  having  come  so  far,  it 
seemed  rather  foolish  not  to  go  on,  and  he  crossed  the 
bridge  and  on  the  other  side  turned  and  strolled  along 
the  path  in  the  direction  of  the  village.  He  had  come 
nearly  to  the  end  of  the  wood,  when  he  turned  a  corner 
and  met  Elizabeth. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  217 

They  greeted  each  other  with  a  thrill  of  joyful  ex- 
citement which  found  expression  in  their  tones. 

Then  she  said:  "I  didn't  think  you'd  come — with 
your  brother  so  ill.  And  then  I  thought  you  might." 

"There's  no  point  in  my  waiting  at  the  Abbey.  He's 
unconscious,  and  it's  most  improbable  that  he  will  be- 
come conscious.  All  the  same,  it  might  shock  people 
to  hear  that  I  had  been  seen  enjoying  your  society 
while  he  was  so  ill.  Isn't  there  some  retired  nook  in 
this  wood  where  we  could  talk  without  shocking  any 
one?" 

"Oh,  yes ;  there's  one  quite  close.  But  no  one  ever 
comes  into  the  wood.  They're  much  too  afraid  of 
you.  It's  only  a  path  to  the  Abbey,  you  know." 

"Never  mind,  let's  go  to  the  nook ;  a  servant  might 
come  along — or  a  gamekeeper." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  and  presently  she  turned  into 
a  narrow  side-path,  about  sixty  yards  from  the  bridge. 

She  led  the  way,  and  about  fifty  yards  deep  in  the 
wood  the  path  ended  in  a  little  turf-covered  dell.  It 
was  so  small  that  only  in  the  middle  of  it  was  the 
moonlit  sky  visible,  through  a  hole,  about  ten  feet 
across  and  sixty  feet  above  their  heads,  in  the  thick 
foliage. 

When  she  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  dell  and 
faced  him  he  promptly  caught  her  up  and  kissed  her. 

"Oh,  you  are  so  violent!"  she  said  with  a  soft  un- 
certain laugh. 

"You'd  make  anybody  violent,"  he  said  with  con- 
viction. 

He  found  that  the  grass  was  dry,  and  they  sat  down 


2i8  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

at  the  foot  of  an  oak.  He  put  his  arm  round  her  and 
drew  her  very  close  to  him.  They  were  too  much  in 
the  shadow  to  please  him:  he  could  not  see  her  face 
clearly  enough.  But  he  endured  it,  since  no  game- 
keeper on  his  rounds,  even  if  he  saw  them  at  all,  could 
in  that  deep  shadow  see  how  close  they  were  together. 

For  a  while  they  were  silent  save  for  now  and  again 
a  murmur  of  endearment  from  him.  They  felt  almost 
under  a  spell,  either  intensely  aware  of  the  other's 
nearness.  The  dark  wood,  the  silence  only  broken  by 
the  faint  sounds  of  the  woodland  at  night,  made  them 
feel  extraordinarily  alone  together  out  of  the  world. 

Presently  she  drew  a  little  away  from  him,  and  said 
in  a  somewhat  uncertain  voice :  "It's — it's  sad  about 
your  brother.  It  must  have  been  a  shock." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  in  a  somewhat  indifferent  tone. 

"He's  the  only  close  relation  you  have,  isn't  he?" 
she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"That  must  make  it  so  much  worse,"  she  said. 

He  felt  a  real  need  on  him  not  to  make  any  more 
pretenses  to  her  than  were  forced  on  him,  and  he 
said: 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  doesn't  hit  me  very 
hard.  You  see  we  haven't  seen  much  of  each  other 
for  years." 

"But  you  were  boys  together,"  she  said  gravely. 

"That  was  a  long  while  ago,"  he  said  quickly. 

"Of  course,"  she  said. 

They  were  silent  a  while,  then  he  drew  her  closer 
again,  and  said : 


WHITAKER'S  DUKEDOM  219 

i 

"The  fact  is  I  can't  think  of  any  one  or  anything  but 
you." 

"Can't  you?    Not  really?"  she  said  softly. 

"No,  I  can't.  Whether  I'm  with  you  or  away  from 
you,  I  can't  think  of  anything  else.  I  didn't  know  that 
any  one  could  absorb  some  one  else  like  that.  There 
isn't  anything  of  real  interest  anywhere  in  the  world, 
except  you." 

She  thrilled  to  the  genuine  fervor  of  his  tone. 
There  was  no  disbelieving  it. 

"I — I  feel  rather  like  that,"  she  said  softly. 

He  threw  his  other  arm  round  her  and  strained  her 
to  him. 

They  stayed  in  the  dell  till  the  church  clock  struck 
eleven.  Then,  after  a  lingering  good-by  at  the  end 
of  the  little  path  and  after  arranging  to  meet  there  at 
eleven  the  next  morning,  they  went  their  different 
ways. 

James  Whitaker  walked  back  to  the  Abbey  with 
both  his  conscience  and  intelligence  in  abeyance  as  far 
as  Elizabeth  was  concerned.  He  was  too  deeply 
moved  to  think  with  any  clearness ;  and  when  his  con- 
science tried  to  raise  its  still  small  voice,  he  refused 
to  face  his  actions  and  their  probable  results.  He  de- 
sired only  to  be  with  her  as  often  and  as  long  as  pos- 
sible; and  he  desired  it  with  an  overmastering  ve- 
hemence which  prevented  in  him  all  regard  for  its 
wisdom  or  propriety.  He  was,  for  the  time  being,  re- 
moved from  the  intellectual  and  moral  spheres  wholly 
into  the  emotional. 

He  came  into  the  Abbey  feeling  really  grateful  to 


220  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

Lord  Edward  Beddard  for  having,  by  his  apoplectic 
seizure,  rendered  it  out  of  the  question  for  him  to 
disappear  yet  a  while,  and  so  forced  him  to  enjoy  more 
of  the  society  of  Elizabeth.  This  sense  of  gratitude 
made  the  visit  to  the  sick-room,  which  he  thought  ad- 
visable, less  irksome. 

He  found  that  Doctor  Arbuthnot,  with  a  due  sense 
of  his  patient's  social  prominence,  had  procured  two 
nurses  for  him.  They  were  manifestly  impressed  by 
the  presence  of  a  duke  in  the  sick-room.  Both  of  them, 
with  decorous  mournfulness,  assured  him  that  their  pa- 
tient would  not  live  many  hours.  They  said  that  Doctor 
Arbuthnot  had  been  twice  that  evening  and  was  com- 
ing again  at  about  twelve  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  night 
with  him.  James  Whitaker  could  not  perceive  any 
change  in  the  sick  man:  the  face  was  still  darkly 
flushed ;  the  monotonous  snoring  seemed  to  him  neither 
louder  nor  softer,  faster  nor  slower  than  it  had  been. 
He  stood  gazing  down  at  him  in  a  frowning  gloom, 
and  the  nurses  watched  his  troubled  face  with  sympa- 
thetic eyes  as  he  pondered  whether  it  was  worth 
while  spending  the  night  in  the  sick-room  and  sharing 
Doctor  Arbuthnot's  disagreeable  vigil.  On  the  whole  it 
seemed  better  not  to  do  so:  the  action  would  prob- 
ably be  out  of  keeping  with  his  predecessor's  character 
and  set  tongues  needlessly  wagging.  He  wished  all 
possible  attention  to  be  centered  on  the  unfortunate 
Lord  Edward  Beddard,  as  little  as  possible  diverted 
to  himself.  He  shook  his  head  gloomily,  bade  the 
nurses  good  night  and  went  to  bed. 

When  Tomkins  awoke  him  next  morning  he  in- 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  221 

formed  him,  with  decorous  mournfulness,  that  Lord 
Edward  Beddard  had  died  at  sunrise.  James  Whit- 
aker  said  nothing ;  he  frowned  gloomily  and  continued 
to  frown  gloomily  while  he  dressed  and  was  shaved. 
With  the  same  gloomy  frown  he  listened  during  his 
breakfast  to  the  sympathetic  lamentations  of  Jen- 
kinson. 

After  breakfast  he  betook  himself  to  the  library 
and  after  a  short  search  through  the  letter-files,  dis- 
covered that  his  family  lawyers  were  Messrs.  Blenkin- 
sop  and  Tudor,  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  He  tried  to 
learn  from  Debrett  who  was  now  the  heir  to  the 
dukedom,  or,  to  be  exact,  who  was  now  the  rightful 
Duke  of  Lanchester,  but  failed. 

He  rang  for  Jenkinson  and  said  to  him:  "I  sup- 
pose the  lawyers  had  better  arrange  the  funeral  and 
send  out  the  invitations." 

"Well,  your  Grace,  Plunkett  and  Crewson,  the  un- 
dertakers at  Lanchester,  generally  attend  to  all  that. 
Mr.  Brinkman  helps  them." 

"I'd  forgotten,"  said  James  Whitaker.  He  paused 
with  an  air  of  thoughtful  consideration,  then  con- 
tinued :  "I  suppose  they'll  have  to  invite  my  heir." 

"The  Earl  of  Fleetham  will  certainly  have  to  be  in- 
vited to  the  funeral,  your  Grace,"  said  Jenkinson 
quickly.  Then  he  coughed  apologetically  and  added: 
"But  after — after  that — that — dispute  with  your 
Grace,  I  don't  suppose  he'll  come." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  matter,"  growled  James  Whitaker. 
"Send  Mr.  Brinkman  up  to  my  smoking-room." 

He  went  up  to  it  himself,  and  had  scarcely  dis- 


222  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

posed  himself  at  ease  in  a  deep  saddle-back  chair  when 
the  steward  came. 

He  entered  with  an  uneasy  furtive  air,  and  stood 
still  before  James  Whitaker,  looking  half  timorous, 
half  defiant.  His  appearance  was  pleasing  to  James 
Whitaker,  and  he  surveyed  him  with  a  faint  mock- 
ing smile.  Mr.  Brinkman  shuffled  his  feet  and  tried 
vainly  to  meet  his  eye. 

"Have  you  written  to  those  Lanchester  people — 
what  are  their  names  ? — Plunkett  and  Crewson,  to  ar- 
range the  funeral?"  said  James  Whitaker. 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  steward  sulkily. 

"Then  why  haven't  you?"  suddenly  roared  James 
Whitaker  in  a  voice  which  made  Mr.  Brinkman  jump. 

"I — I — was  g-g-going  to,"  he  stuttered. 

"And  don't  forget  to  tell  them  to  invite  that  damned 
Fleetham — not  that  he'll  come." 

"Of  c-c-course,  your  G-G — of  course." 

"Have  you  wired  the  news  to  Blenkinsop  and  Tu- 
dor?" 

"N-n-not  yet." 

"Then  what  the  devil  have  you  been  doing?"  roared 
James  Whitaker. 

"It's  only  half  p-p-past  t-ten,"  stammered  the 
steward. 

"Well,  get  on  to  it !    And  be  quick  about  it !" 

"Are  they  to  invite  everybody  who  might  be  ex- 
pected to  be  asked?"  said  Mr.  Brinkman  with  a  sud- 
den eagerness. 

James  Whitaker  saw  it  and  wondered  what  was  the 
meaning  of  it. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  223 

"Of  course.    Why  not?"  he  said. 

Mr.  Brinkman's  face  fell:  he  had  been  expecting 
that  he  would  shrink  from  publicity.  He  felt  certain 
enough  that  James  Whitaker  was  not  the  duke;  but 
he  was  ready  enough  to  have  his  certainty  strength- 
ened as  often  and  in  as  many  ways  as  possible.  He 
gazed  at  him  viciously. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  standing  there  idling  for?" 
roared  James  Whitaker  more  loudly  than  ever. 

Mr.  Brinkman  again  jumped,  muttered  something 
about  waiting  for  further  instructions,  and  slunk  out 
of  the  room.  In  his  office  he  found  himself  trembling 
so  violently  that  he  had  to  rewrite  his  telegram  to 
the  lawyers.  When  he  had  written  the  letter  to  Plun- 
kett  and  Crewson,  and  arranged  that  a  groom  should 
at  once  ride  with  it  to  Lanchester,  he  rested  his  face 
on  his  hands  and  resumed  the  process  of  cudgeling 
his  brains  for  the  clue  to  the  El  Dorado  on  the  floor 
above  him. 

He  cudgeled  them,  however,  with  a  rather  less  hope- 
ful eagerness  than  the  day  before.  He  had  been 
shaken  by  the  patness  with  which  the  names  of  the 
undertakers,  the  lawyers  and  the  heir  had  come  from 
James  Whitaker's  tongue.  He  might,  indeed,  have 
learned  them  from  Tomkins  or  Jenkinson  in  casual 
talk  without  their  dreaming  that  they  were  telling  him 
things  of  which  he  was  ignorant.  But  he  had  spoken 
of  them  with  a  familiarity  which  was  discomfiting. 

Mr.  Brinkman  ground  his  teeth.  He  could  not  be 
wrong.  He  must  find  the  clue  to  the  mystery.  He 
would  search  every  inch  of  the  wood. 


224  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

James  Whitaker  walked  down  to  the  bridge  aflame 
with  eagerness  to  be  with  Elizabeth  again.  He  was 
surprised  by  the  vehemence  of  this  perpetual  desire 
to  be  with  her;  never  in  his  life  before  had  he  desired 
anything  with  such  vehemence.  It  was  true  that  never 
in  his  life  before  had  he  known  any  one  so  charming 
and  delightful  as  Elizabeth.  But  that  fact  did  not,  to 
his  thinking,  account  for  all  the  vehemence  of  his  de- 
sire. He  suspected  that  living  luxuriously  in  this  free- 
dom from  care  was  strengthening  him  emotionally  as 
well  as  physically.  The  change  was  pleasing  to  him. 

He  was  a  little  early  at  the  trysting-place,  but  he 
found  Elizabeth  already  in  the  dell,  and  as  she  rose, 
flushing  and  smiling,  to  welcome  him,  he  found  her 
more  ravishing  than  ever. 

They  talked  more  in  the  daylight  than  they  had 
the  night  before — about  the  death  of  Lord  Edward 
Beddard,  and  his  funeral;  about  the  rebuilding  of  the 
village  and  the  hamlets.  She  was  able  to  inform  him 
that  the  villagers  were  looking  forward  to  the  change, 
some  with  doubt  merely,  others  with  resentment. 
Owing  to  the  weeding  effect  of  the  neighboring  town 
of  Lanchester,  there  was  hardly  any  one  left  in  the  vil- 
lage of  sufficient  intelligence  to  look  forward  with  any 
pleasure  to  dwelling  in  a  roomier  cottage. 

"Well,  I  suppose  the  idea  is  to  make  the  place  fit 
for  the  more  intelligent  people  to  live  in.  At  least, 
I  read  something  like  that  somewhere :  perhaps  it  was 
in  The  Times,"  he  said  with  an  air  of  vagueness. 

"Oh,  you'll  never  do  that,"  said  Elizabeth.  "The 
intelligent  ones,  young  men  and  young  women,  are 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  225 

like  me :  they  can't  stand  the  dulness.  All  you  will 
really  do  will  -be  to  keep  the  children  healthier." 

"At  any  rate,  they'll  have  decent  baths,"  said  James 
Whitaker. 

"Baths!"  cried  Elizabeth.  "Well,  you'll  have  to 
make  a  very  strict  rule  that  they're  not  to  keep  coal, 
or  onions,  or  potatoes  in  them;  and  you'll  have  to 
get  papa  to  see  that  they  keep  it.  But  that's  as  near  as 
they'll  go  to  having  baths." 

"How  would  it  be  if  I  were  to  offer  a  prize  for  the 
cleanest  child?" 

"It  would  be  a  horrid — cruel  thing  to  do!"  cried 
Elizabeth.  "Why,  they'd  scrub  the  skin  off  the  chil- 
dren!" 

"It  looks  as  if  the  improvements  were  going  to  be 
rather  wasted,"  he  said  somewhat  gloomily. 

"Oh,  no ;  they  won't,"  she  said  hastily.  "It  will  be 
much  healthier  for  the  children.  And,  of  course,  papa 
will  badger  some  of  them  into  taking  baths,  and  I  will 
talk  to  the  elder  girls  about  the  pleasure  of  it.  After 
all,  a  certain  number  of  them  will  take  baths — in  sum- 
mer." 

"Well,  as  long  as  you're  satisfied,  I  am.  The  whole 
business  of  improving  the  places  was  your  idea,"  he 
said  carelessly 

She  flushed  with  pleasure. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MR.  BRINKMAN  cudgeled  his  brains  vainly  for 
half  an  hour,  then  he  resolved  on  action.  He 
walked  briskly  across  the  park  to  the  bridge,  and  on  it 
he  paused  and  considered  the  home  wood.  In  it  the 
impostor  professed  to  have  been  struck  by  lightning, 
and  the  indignant  steward  proposed  to  search  its  sur- 
face for  the  signs  of  a  newly-made  grave,  and  to  ex- 
amine all  natural  holes  and  nooks  such  as  hollow  trees 
and  pools,  and  the  little-used  quarry  and  saw-pit. 

He  knew  the  wood,  or,  rather,  parts  of  it,  for  in 
the  summer  he  had  often  strolled  through  it,  and  he 
began  by  searching  out-of-the-way  parts  of  it  where  a 
man  would  be  most  likely  to  hide  a  dead  body.  That 
very  nearly  brought  him  to  the  dell  in  which  James 
Whitaker  and  Elizabeth  were  talking.  But  it  occurred 
to  him  that  the  impostor,  being  a  stranger,  would  not 
know  the  spots  convenient  for  making  away  with  the 
duke  and  burying  his  body ;  he  would  take  him  where 
he  found  him  and  deal  with  him  there.  Therefore 
it  was  no  use  searching  for  the  grave  or  the  corpse 
only  in  the  likely  places;  he  must  search  the  whole 
wood.  He  forthwith  mapped  it  out,  in  his  mind,  into 
sections,  walked  across  it,  and  began  to  search  that 
section  of  it  along  which  the  highroad  ran.  That 
spared  James  Whitaker  and  Elizabeth  his  intrusion. 

226 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  227 

He  searched  rather  more  than  an  acre  of  it  before 
lunch,  and  in  the  evening  he  searched  another  acre. 
Several  times,  with  a  heart  that  beat  high,  he  believed 
himself  about  to  discover  the  body  of  the  duke,  but 
found  that  he  had  been  misled  by  a  dead  rabbit. 

The  Abbey  was  quieter  than  ever,  now  that  Lord 
Edward  Beddard  lay  dead  in  it.  James  Whitaker  did 
not  find  him  at  all  an  oppression;  indeed  he  thought 
very  little  about  him,  for  he  had  naturally  ceased  to 
count.  Besides,  Elizabeth  filled  his  mind;  and  he  was 
spending  every  possible  hour  with  her  in  the  dell 

On  the  day  before  that  appointed  for  the  funeral 
he  came  back  to  lunch  to  find  Sir  Richard  Starton 
waiting  for  him.  He  said  that  he  had  driven  over  to 
lunch  with  him  and  cheer  him  up.  Since  he  had  now 
no  fear  whatever  that  he  would  discover  that  he  was 
not  the  duke  James  Whitaker  was  pleased  to  have  his 
society. 

As  happened  before,  the  burden  of  the  talk  fell  upon 
Sir  Richard ;  and  he  talked  of  their  common  acquaint- 
ances in  a  lively  and  agreeable  manner.  His  one  al- 
lusion to  the  dead  man  up-stairs  showed  frankly  that 
he  was  aware  that  he  was  not  lunching  with  a  deeply 
sorrowful  brother.  His  talk  grated  somewhat  on 
James  Whitaker:  it  still  further  robbed  the  subjects 
of  it  of  their  likeness  to  the  distinguished  county  peo- 
ple in  the  novels  of  the  cultured  lady  authoress  Milli- 
cent  had  taught  him  to  revere.  They  were  an  idle, 
pleasure-seeking  gang;  and  he  felt  that  their  doings 
as  translated  through  the  temperament  of  Sir  Rich- 
ard ought  not  to  amuse  him  as  they  did. 


228  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

After  lunch,  as  they  were  drinking  their  coffee,  Sir 
Richard  questioned  him  about  his  progress  to  recov- 
ery from  the  lightning-stroke.  He  seemed  to  be  really 
interested  in  it. 

"My  arm's  still  about  as  stiff  as  it  was ;  and  so  are 
the  muscles  of  my  throat,"  growled  James  Whitaker 
quite  truthfully. 

He  had  been  prudently  talking  all  the  while  in  a 
raucous  voice. 

"I  was  thinking  about  your  memory,  rather,"  said 
Sir  Richard. 

"Oh,  it  varies;  but  I  think  it's  improving,"  growled 
James  Whitaker  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction.  "I  recog- 
nized Edward." 

"Ah,  but  you  were  expecting  him.  Do  you  think 
you'd  have  recognized  him  if  you'd  just  seen  him 
casually?" 

"Yes,  I  knew  his  face." 

"Well,  that's  satisfactory,"  said  Sir  Richard. 

He  was  silent  for  a  while;  and  once  or  twice  he 
glanced  at  James  Whitaker  with  thoughtful  question- 
ing eyes. 

Then  he  said  in  a  testing  tone :  "Lady  Cubbington's 
rather  sick  about  it." 

"About  what?" 

"About  your  loss  of  memory." 

"Well,  I  can't  help  it,  can  I  ?"  growled  James  Whit- 
aker. 

"No,  of  course  you  can't;  of  course  you  can't," 
said  Sir  Richard  quickly ;  then  he  added  more  slowly : 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  229 

"Only  she  feels  you're  not  giving  your  memory  a  fair 
chance  to  recover — as  far  as  she's  concerned,  you 
know.  You  used  to  drive  over  to  the  Grange  nearly 
every  day." 

"Did  I  now?"  said  James  Whitaker  in  a  tone  of  ex- 
treme and  plainly  genuine  surprise. 

"You  did,"  said  Sir  Richard. 

James  Whitaker  was  again  silent.  He  appeared  to 
be  reflecting  on  this  forgotten  habit.  Sir  Richard  ap- 
peared to  be  awaiting  his  declaration  that  he  would 
forthwith  resume  it;  but  James  Whitaker  had  no  in- 
tention in  the  world  of  adopting  this  habit  of  his 
predecessor. 

Sir  Richard  awaited  his  declaration  of  resumption 
for  rather  more  than  two  minutes.  Then  he  said  some- 
what sadly : 

"These  lightning-strokes  are  queer  things.  What 
about  Cara  L'Esterre  ?" 

"What  about  who?"  cried  James  Whitaker,  using 
his  natural  voice  in  his  surprise. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you've  forgotten  that 
queen  of  musical  comedy!"  cried  Sir  Richard. 

"But  I  have,"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"These  lightning-strokes  are  queer  things.  I  could 
have  understood  your  forgetting  so  much  better,  if 
she'd  spent  money  on  you,"  said  Sir  Richard  philosoph- 
ically. "But  there :  she'll  remind  you  all  right." 

James  Whitaker  frowned  at  him,  but  said  nothing. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  this  acquaintance  of  his  prede- 
cessor must  be  regarded  in  the  same  light  as  his  racing- 


230  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

stable.  He  could  only  hope  that  he  would  have  as 
little  trouble  in  parting  from  her  as  he  had  had  in  part- 
ing with  it. 

"Of  course,  Cara  is  a  quite  uncommon  dear,"  said 
Sir  Richard. 

"Is  she?"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"Do  you  really  mean  to  say  that  you  don't  remem- 
ber her  at  all?"  said  Sir  Richard  earnestly. 

*'I  didn't  know  that  there  was  such  a  person  in  the 
world  till  you  told  me,"  said  James  Whitaker  not  only 
truthfully  but  in  the  most  convincing  accents  of  the 
truth.  "I  don't  think  I  could  have  been  really  inti- 
mate with  her." 

Sir  Richard  looked  doubtful;  but  he  only  said: 
"Well,  you're  bound  to  hear  from  her." 

"Am  I  ?"  said  James  Whitaker  glumly. 

But  his  face  brightened  almost  in  the  instant :  after 
all,  it  was  personal  interviews,  not  letters,  which  were 
so  discomfiting. 

Presently  Sir  Richard  asked  him  if  he  would  like  a 
game  of  picquet.  But  James  Whitaker  said  that  he 
was  still  unable  to  remember  it,  that  -baccarat,  which 
he  had  learned  since  the  lightning-stroke,  was  the 
only  game  he  knew. 

"Well,  I  tell  you  what  it  is:  you  come  over  to 
the  Grange — let's  see:  the  funeral's  to-morrow — on 
Monday:  and  we'll  start  to  teach  you  auction  all  over 
again." 

"I'll  see  what  I  feel  like — if  my  mind  seems  a  bit 
brighter,"  said  James  Whitaker  with  no  great  hearti- 
ness. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  231 

If  he  had  proposed  to  continue  Duke  of  Lanchester 
it  might  have  been  wise  to  learn  bridge,  though  he 
doubted  the  need  to  do  so;  but  as  it  was,  there  was 
plainly  nothing  to  be  gained  by  it.  By  going  to  the 
Grange  he  would  expose  himself  to  the  danger  of 
having  to  embrace,  or  be  embraced  by,  Lady  Cubbing- 
ton  ;  and  he  had  a  strong  feeling  that,  with  his  mind  so 
full  of  Elizabeth,  he  would  find  it  somewhat  tiresome. 

At  a  quarter  to  three  Sir  Richard  pleased  him  by 
taking  his  leave.  He  departed  with  a  faint  look  of 
dissatisfaction  on  his  face;  and  James  Whitaker  did 
not  know  whether  he  was  dissatisfied  because  he  had 
failed  to  excite  his  warmer  interest  in  auction  bridge 
or  in  Lady  Cubbington.  But  he  fancied  that  the  latter 
failure  was  the  reason  of  his  chagrin. 

He  went  to  his  tryst  with  Elizabeth,  very  well  con- 
tent. 

For  the  most  part  they  now  met  in  the  dell.  It 
was  indeed,  thanks  to  the  dread  the  late  duke  had  in- 
spired into  the  country-folk,  but  little  more  secluded 
than  the  banks  of  the  trout-stream;  but  it  had  the  air 
of  being  more  secluded,  and  it  filled  them  with  the 
pleasant  sense  of  being  alone  together  out  of  the 
world.  In  it  the  delightful  hours  fled  on  swift  feet. 

James  Whitaker  was  naturally  somewhat  uneasy, 
though  not  very  fearful  about  the  funeral.  He  was  not 
inexperienced  in  funerals :  he  had  been  chief  mourner 
at  that  of  his  father:  and  he  had  supported  Millicent 
at  that  of  William  Ward.  He  found  that  the  gloomy 
frown,  which  came  so  easily  to  his  face,  met  every  re- 
quirement of  decorum.  He  had  only  to  growl  at  the 


232  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

old  gentlemen  who  came  to  him,  one  by  one,  and 
pressed  his  hand  and  murmured  a  few,  carefully 
thought-out  words  of  sympathy. 

He  observed  that  the  guests  at  the  funeral  were  not 
the  same  people,  or  indeed  of  the  same  type,  as  those 
he  had  entertained  at  baccarat.  On  the  whole  they 
were  older;  and  all  of  them  were  more  sober  and  se- 
date. He  had  not  thought  highly  of  the  intelligence 
of  his  card-playing  acquaintances.  He  had  perhaps 
underrated  their  intelligence  in  his  disappointment  at 
rinding  them  so  very  different  from  the  country  peo- 
ple who  really  adorned  the  pages  of  the  cultured  au- 
thoress of  whom  Millicent  was  so  earnest  an  admirer. 
But  he  could  not  but  perceive  that  these  more  sedate 
worthies  looked  not  only  duller  but  far  more  stupid. 

He  soon  found  that  there  had  been  no  need  to  feel 
uneasy  about  confronting  so  many  of  the  late  duke's 
acquaintances.  Not  one  of  them  perceived,  or  could 
have  perceived,  anything  amiss.  After  they  had  taken 
their  leave,  he  walked  down  to  his  tryst  with  Elizabeth 
more  assured  of  his  position  than  ever.  He  felt  indeed 
that  having  weathered  the  recognition  by  Lord  Ed- 
ward Beddard,  and  compassed  his  end  of  rebuilding 
the  villages,  he  ought  to  disappear  as  soon  as  he  had 
signed  the  contracts  for  the  improvement  of  Chigleigh, 
Wodden  and  Gant.  But  his  mind  was  too  full  of 
Elizabeth  for  him  to  give  the  matter  his  serious  con- 
sideration. 

It  was  on  the  morrow  that  the  matter  of  Mr. 
Brinkman  was  recalled  to  his  mind.  Elizabeth  had 
come  to  the  dell  as  soon  as  she  had  dismissed  her  Sun- 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  233 

day-school  class ;  and  they  were  sitting  under  the  oak, 
talking  little,  and  that  in  low  voices,  when  they  heard 
a  rustling  in  the  bushes  on  the  farther  side  of  the  dell. 
Elizabeth  slipped  into  the  covert  of  a  clump  of  hazels 
in  which  they  had  arranged  that  she  should  hide,  if 
a  keeper  came  that  way;  and  James  Whitaker  went 
quietly  up  to  the  edge  of  the  dell  and  peered  round  a 
tree-trunk.  At  first  he  could  see  nothing;  but  he  ob- 
served that  the  rustling  moved  up  and  down,  up  and 
down,  with  a  considerable  regularity,  thirty  yards  this 
way  and  thirty  yards  that.  Then,  he  caught  sight  of 
the  figure  of  a  man;  and  then,  as  he  drew  nearer  on  his 
slow  and  uncommonly  zigzag  advance,  he  saw  that  it 
was  Mr.  Brinkman. 

He  watched  him  for  three  or  four  minutes  in  some 
wonder.  It  seemed  such  an  odd  way  of  coming 
through  a  wood:  Mr.  Brinkman  would  not  reach  the 
tree  from  behind  which  he  watched  for  several  minutes 
yet.  Then  he  saw  that  he  was  stooping  a  little  as  he 
walked  up  and  down,  and  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  ground.  Plainly  the  steward  was  searching  foi 
something. 

James  Whitaker  came  very  quietly  down  into  tht 
dell,  drew  Elizabeth  from  her  hiding-place  and  told 
her  that  they  must  decamp.  Half-way  down  the  nar- 
row path  the  object  of  the  steward's  search  flashed  orj 
him.  ...  It  could  only  be  one  thing!  .  .  . 
The  body  of  the  duke ! 

He  stopped  short  in  his  surprise  and  (Hammer- 
smith fashion)  slapped  his  thigh,  and  muttered:  "By 
jove!" 


234  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"What  is  it?"  said  Elizabeth. 

"Oh,  nothing — nothing.  The  man  who  disturbed 
us  was  Brinkman;  and  he  was  hunting,"  he  said,  and 
chuckled  grimly. 

"Then  he  must  have  been  hunting  us !"  cried  Eliza- 
beth, leaping  to  a  not  unnatural  conclusion.  "But 
what  horrible  cheek!" 

"Oh,  I'll  deal  with  him  all  right,"  said  James  Whit- 
aker  with  careless  assurance. 

He  was  amused  for  a  while  by  the  steward's  hope- 
less quest ;  then  he  grew  annoyed  with  him. 

"Hang  it  all!  I'm  not  paying  the  swine  a  good  sal- 
ary to  spend  his  time  trying  to  convict  me  of  fraud !" 
he  said  to  himself  indignantly. 

None  the  less  he  was  pleased  to  have  learned  what 
Brinkman  was  doing:  he  would  not  be  taken  by  sur- 
prise. 

He  was  careful  to  go  to  the  office  next  morning  to 
observe  the  steward's  temper  and  attitude.  He  found 
him  looking  depressed  and  nervous ;  and  his  eyes  were 
a  little  wild.  He  talked  to  him  about  the  contracts 
for  the  rebuilding  of  Chigleigh,  Wodden  and  Gant, 
since  they  were  the  most  annoying  subject  he  could 
think  of,  and  presently,  because  Mr.  Brinkman  could 
not  tell  him  when  they  would  be  ready,  he  fell  into  a 
sudden  passion  and  bellowed  at  him  in  a  very  furious, 
nerve-racking  fashion.  He  was  not  abusive ;  he  merely 
bellowed  questions. 

After  he  had  gone  Mr.  Brinkman  fairly  sniveled 
with  nervous  exasperation. 

On  the  following  evening  he  came  to  the  end  of 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  235 

his  vain  search  for  a  grave  in  the  home  wood  in  the 
keenest  disappointment.  But  he  soon  regained  hope: 
he  was  assured  that  the  duke  had  been  made  away 
with;  his  body  was  to  be  found;  and  sooner  or  later 
he  would  find  it.  The  sight  of  his  walking  El  Dorado 
was  a  frequent  stimulation.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that 
he  was  an  impostor  living  gorgeously  in  stolen  lux- 
ury and  always  truculent  with  him,  he  by  no  means 
hated  James  Whitaker.  Though  James  Whitaker 
racked  his  nerves  by  his  bellowing,  he  did  not  lacerate 
his  vanity  by  abuse.  Indeed  Mr.  Brinkman  may  be 
said  almost  to  have  been  regarding  him  with  a  sneak- 
ing liking  as  the  ultimate  source  of  great  riches.  He 
had  certainly  a  stronger  liking  for  this  ferocious  and 
illegitimate  knave  of  a  stockbroker  than  he  had  had 
for  the  late  duke,  whom  he  had  considered  merely  an 
unpleasant  fool. 

His  search  in  the  home  wood  having  proved  vain, 
while  promising  himself  further  searches  in  the  woods 
nearest  it  and  along  the  banks  of  the  stream,  he  set 
himself  to  find  other  paths  to  the  damning  purse- 
opening  facts.  On  the  next  evening  he  contrived  to 
be  overtaken  by  Tomkins,  who  was  on  his  way  to  the 
village,  greeted  him  in  a  friendly  fashion,  paid  the 
usual  tribute  to  the  climate  of  the  British  Isles,  offered 
him  a  cigar,  and  when  he  had  lighted  it,  said  with  a 
careless  air  and  in  a  careless  tone : 

"Do  you  think  his  Grace  has  changed  much  since 
he  was  struck  by  lightning?" 

"I  can't  say  as  I've  took  pertickler  notice  of  'im,  Mr. 
Brinkman,"  said  Tomkins  affably. 


236  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Well,  I  think  that  he's  altered.  And  I  should  have 
thought  that  being  always  in  such  close  contact  with 
him,  any  change  in  him  would  have  been  forced  on 
your  notice,"  said  Mr.  Brinkman  smoothly. 

"Well,  now  you  come  to  speak  of  it,  'e  'as  changed. 
He's  grown  more  'umanlike.  He  don't  get  into  the 
rages  'e  did  about  nothing  at  all.  Not  once  since  'e 
was  struck  'as  'e  up  and  thrown  a  boot  at  me.  Why, 
I  don't  believe  'e's  as  much  as  cursed  me.  Oh,  yes: 
now  you  come  to  speak  of  it,  that  lightning-stroke  'as 
changed  'im." 

"You  would  almost  say  he  was  a  different  man,  in 
fact,"  said  Mr.  Brinkman  eagerly. 

"No;  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that,"  said 
Tomkins  with  a  judicial  air.  "But  I  will  say  as  it's 
done  'im  a  world  o'  good." 

"It  would  be  rather  interesting  to  you,  as  a  student 
of  human  nature" — Tomkins  drew  himself  upright 
with  a  complacent  air — "to  observe  exactly  how  far 
the  change  goes,"  said  Mr.  Brinkman. 

He  foresaw  that  whatever  Tomkins  noticed  could 
be  used  as  evidence,  should  he  be  compelled,  instead 
of  living  on  this  ferocious  stockbroker,  to  sell  his  in- 
formation to  the  Earl  of  Fleetham. 

"It  might,  Mr.  Brinkman — it  might,"  said  Tom- 
kins  with  an  important  air. 

Mr.  Brinkman  hugged  himself  to  perceive  that  the 
valet  was  the  very  stuff  of  which  useful  witnesses  are 
made:  he  could  easily  be  persuaded  that  he  had  ob- 
served anything. 

Then  he  said :  "By  the  way,  I  should  like  to  see  that 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  237 

coat  which  was  struck  by  lightning.  I  should  like  to 
see  the  exact  effect  of  the  electricity." 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Brinkman,  I'll  bring  it  round  to 
your  office  in  the  morning,"  said  Tomkins  eagerly, 
foreseeing  a  tip. 

"Thank  you.     It's  sure  to  be  interesting." 

"Oh,  yes;  coats  struck  by  lightning  aren't  exactly 
common,"  said  Tomkins. 

When  they  came  through  the  little  wood  out  on  to 
the  road,  Mr.  Brinkman  bade  the  valet  good  night  and 
walked  up  it  to  his  house,  which  stood  above  the  vil- 
lage. He  walked  with  an  air  of  importance,  very  like 
that  of  Tomkins,  for  he  could  not  but  feel  that  this 
endeavor  to  procure  evidence  on  which  to  blackmail 
this  impostor  was  by  far  the  most  important  transac- 
tion in  his  life.  He  was  also  very  pleased  that  he 
would  on  the  morrow  have  the  coat  in  his  possession. 
He  did  not  believe  that  any  one  had  been  struck  by 
lightning,  and  he  expected  that  it  would  be  clear  that 
the  coat  had  been  deliberately  set  on  fire.  He  hoped 
also  to  find  that  it  was  stained  with  blood. 

As  a  rule  he  was  of  a  taciturn  habit  in  his  home,  for 
he  was  uncommonly  conscious  of  his  manly  superior- 
ity; but  to-night  he  was  very  affable  with  his  wife, 
condescending  often  to  the  level  of  the  womanly  intel- 
ligence. He  thought  that  this  new  line  of  research 
was  promising,  and  the  thought  cheered  him. 

Mrs.  Brinkman  was  the  daughter  of  a  farmer,  and 
that  night  she  expressed  considerable  resentment  at 
the  scheme  for  improving  the  condition  of  the  labor- 
ers on  the  estate.  He  found  her  sympathetic. 


238  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

He  took  with  him  to  his  office  next  morning  a  fairly 
strong  reading-glass,  for  though  he  had  no  intention  of 
returning  the  coat  to  Tomkins,  he  was  impatient  to 
justify  his  suspicion  that  it  was  stained  with  blood. 

When  Tomkins  brought  the  coat  Mr.  Brinkman  pre- 
tended to  be  very  busy,  and  only  tore  himself  from 
his  writing  to  give  the  valet  half  a  dollar  and  bid  him 
set  the  coat  on  a  chair.  But  no  sooner  had  the  valet 
shut  the  door  behind  him  than  he  pounced  on  the  coat 
and  bore  it  to  the  window. 

The  burned  patch  proved  a  disappointment,  for  it 
bore  no  signs  of  having  been  set  on  fire.  Plainly  it 
had  been  scorched,  and  the  part  of  it  which  had  crum- 
bled away  had  left  a  neat,  clean-cut,  straight  edge.  He 
was  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  the  coat  had  been 
struck  by  lightning. 

This  discovery  altered  the  complexion  of  the  affair 
for  him.  He  sat  considering  this,  to  him,  new  fact 
for  a  long  while ;  it  did  not  affect  the  main  feature  of 
the  case :  the  duke's  body  must  none  the  less  be  buried 
somewhere.  He  pondered  all  he  had  heard  about  the 
impostor's  arrival,  struck  by  lightning.  It  did  not  now 
seem  improbable  that  he  had  been  slightly  struck;  he 
might  have  been  with  the  duke  when  he  was  struck. 
It  certainly  was  the  oddest  of  coincidences  that  three 
men  should  have  been  struck  by  lightning  in  the  woods 
on  the  same  day — the  duke,  the  impostor  and  the 
tramp. 

Then  the  truth  flashed  on  him :  there  had  never  been 
any  tramp!  Or,  rather,  the  stockbroker  had  been  the 
tramp.  Plainly  he  had  lost  his  position  and  come  to 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  239 

grief.  The  duke  had  met  him  in  the  wood,  doubtless 
in  answer  to  some  violent  appeal  and  probably  with  the 
intention  of  helping  him  once  more.  The  lightning  had 
struck  both  of  them,  scorched  and  twisted  the  face  of 
the  duke  out  of  all  recognition  (the  steward  had  served 
on  the  coroner's  jury  and  seen  the  dreadful  face),  the 
impostor  had  seized  his  chance  and  changed  clothes 
with  the  dead  man. 

It  was  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff  1 


CHAPTER  XV 

]\ /TR-  BRINKMAN  was  still  in  the  first  fine  flush 
J. V JL  of  his  joy  when  James  Whitaker  paid  his  morn- 
ing visit  to  the  office.  Fortunately  he  heard  his  ap- 
proaching footsteps  in  time  to  cram  the  coat  into  a 
drawer,  out  of  sight. 

James  Whitaker  entered  scowling,  as  usual;  but 
Mr.  Brinkman  was  careless  of  his  scowl,  for  he  felt, 
joyfully,  that  he  held  him  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 
As  James  Whitaker  gave  him  instructions  about  cer- 
tain details  of  the  management  of  the  estate,  and  in 
particular  to  observe  and  report  the  progress  the  work- 
men were  making  in  the  draining  of  Little  Lanchester 
(they  were  leaving  the  rebuilding  till  the  sanitation 
should  be  sound),  and  to  decide  whether  they  were 
working  as  hard  and  as  quickly  as  could  be  expected, 
or  whether  they  needed  a  little  urging,  the  steward 
gloated  over  him.  He  even  asked  him  a  foolish  ques- 
tion, in  order  to  provoke  him  to  bellow  at  him  and  en- 
joy the  feeling  that  now  he  did  not  care  a  tinker's 
curse  for  his  bellowing.  Indeed,  the  more  violent 
James  Whitaker  grew,  the  more  keenly  Mr.  Brink- 
man enjoyed  the  sense  of  his  power  to  bring  him, 
confounded  and  lamb-like,  to  his  feet.  He  even  dared 
to  address  him  as  "Your  Grace,"  in  a  tone  of  the 
most  marked  sarcasm. 

240 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  241 

James  Whitaker  was  quick  to  observe  the  change 
in  him,  and  wondered  what  new  discovery  he  had 
made,  or  believed  himself  to  have  made,  to  give  him 
ihis  ease  and  confidence.  He  was  not  at  all  distressed 
that  he  should  have  made  one.  He  was  sure  that  it 
could  not  be  of  real  importance ;  he  could  not  possibly 
in  the  time  have  discovered  the  Hammersmith  shop. 
He  had  dismissed  him  carelessly  from  his  mind  before 
he  had  gone  half-way  across  the  park  on  his  way  to 
his  tryst  with  Elizabeth  in  the  dell. 

He  had  not  left  the  office  very  long  before  Mr. 
Brinkman's  triumphant  joy  began  to  fade.  As  he  con- 
sidered the  situation  at  greater  length  his  discovery 
began  to  grow  less  cheering.  He  did  not  for  a  mo- 
ment doubt  its  correctness;  but  he  began  to  doubt, 
painfully,  its  value.  He  began  to  see  that  it  was  going 
to  be  very  difficult  indeed  to  make  it  a  commercial  as- 
set. The  full  difficulty  of  proving  that  this  impostor 
had  changed  places  with  the  duke  in  those  extraor- 
dinary circumstances  was  growing  clear.  It  was  in- 
deed an  amazing  tale.  If  he  went  with  it  to  the  Earl 
of  Fleetham,  he  might  indeed  persuade  that  nobleman, 
since  he  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  being  nearly  an 
imbecile,  of  its  truth ;  but  his  lawyers  would  not  think 
it  worth  examination. 

Besides,  there  was  no  evidence  of  the  change.  It 
was  useless  to  exhume  the  duke :  the  lightning  had  done 
its  work  too  thoroughly.  On  the  other  hand,  the  cor- 
oner and  every  man  on  the  coroner's  jury,  except  him- 
self, would  swear  confidently  that  the  man  on  whom 
they  had  held  an  inquest  was  not  the  duke.  He  might 


242  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

indeed  find  dozens  of  witnesses  to  swear  that  the  im- 
postor was,  or  had  been,  a  member  of  the  Stock  Ex- 
change ;  but  the  impostor  could  produce  as  many  and 
far  more  credible  witnesses  to  swear  that  he  was  the 
Duke  of  Lanchester.  They  would  swear  it  with  the 
more  vigor  since,  if  he  were  not  the  duke,  he  had  made 
utter  fools  of  them  all. 

Mr.  Brinkman's  high  spirits  sank  and  sank.  The 
longer  he  considered  the  situation  the  more  difficult 
it  grew.  He  pondered  and  pondered  it,  but  he  could 
not  see  how  to  turn  it  to  his  profit.  He  felt  strongly 
that  not  only  had  fortune  entrenched  the  impostor 
almost  impregnably,  but  that  he  was  of  a  dour  and 
stubborn  character  to  make  the  fullest  use  of  those  en- 
trenchments. 

He  pondered  his  employer's  character  at  length,  and 
slowly  his  spirits  rose  again.  It  might  be  difficult  be- 
yond measure  to  prove  in  a  law-court  that  he  was  not 
the  duke;  but  after  all,  he  had  no  intention  of  going 
with  his  tale  to  the  Earl  of  Fleetham,  unless  the  im- 
postor refused  to  pay.  But  he  would  not  refuse.  No 
matter  how  savage  the  nature  of  a  probably  disrep- 
utable and  almost  certainly  illegitimate  stockbroker 
who  had  usurped  a  dukedom,  he  must  pay  to  have  the 
secret  of  his  usurpation  kept.  However  furious  the 
impostor  might  be,  Mr.  Brinkman  was  sure  that  he 
was  far  too  intelligent  not  to  grasp  that  fact.  He 
might  rage ;  indeed,  he  would  rage ;  but  he  would  pay. 
His  spirits  rose  again  to  their  triumphant  height  as 
his  last  misgiving  vanished;  he  would  go  to  his  black- 
mailing with  his  heart  free  from  care. 


243 

But  he  made  no  haste  about  it;  he  wished  to  enjoy 
to  the  full  his  anticipations  of  triumph  before  he  en- 
joyed the  triumph  itself. 

The  next  afternoon  Mr.  Lamplow  and  Judson 
brought  the  contracts  for  the  draining  and  rebuilding 
of  Chigleigh,  Wodden  and  Gant,  and  James  Whitaker 
signed  them.  Mr.  Brinkman  perceived  that  he  might 
easily  prevent  this  by  apprising  the  usurper  (he  now, 
in  his  mind,  substituted  this  milder  term  for  the  ear- 
lier "impostor")  of  his  knowledge  of  his  secret  and 
bidding  him  go  no  further  with  the  scheme  than  the 
draining  and  rebuilding  of  Little  Lanchester.  But  he 
had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  Duke  of  Lan- 
chester was  now  committed  to  the  scheme,  and  to  re- 
fuse to  sign  the  final  contracts  would  set  tongues  need- 
lessly wagging.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  less  the 
Duke  of  Lanchester  was,  at  the  moment,  in  the  public 
eye  the  better. 

But  this  signing  of  the  contracts  was  for  James 
Whitaker  the  signal  for  departure.  His  work  at  Lan- 
chester Abbey  was  done. 

He  was  bitterly  resentful  at  it.  He  had  now  been 
at  the  Abbey  eighteen  days,  and  this  extension  of  his 
stay  had  made  a  great  difference  in  his  feelings.  He 
had  settled  down  very  comfortably  in  the  position  of 
duke;  indeed,  he  could  not  be  blind  to  the  fact  that 
his  was  a  nature  admirably  attuned  to  the  position. 
Already  it  had  become  wholly  natural  to  him  to  be 
waited  on  by  skilful  servants,  to  enjoy  the  cooking  of 
an  accomplished  chef,  and  the  flavors  of  the  finest 
wines  and  cigars;  and  it  would  be  difficult  and  not  a 


244  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

little  painful  to  break  himself  of  these  excellent  habits. 
For  him  they  were  excellent — he  was  sure  of  it — and 
after  all,  it  must  be  a  scientific  impossibility  that  a 
man  should  be  the  very  spit  of  a  duke  and  not  also 
possess  a  ducal  nature.  If  he  had  not  given  it  play,  if, 
as  he  had  intended,  Providence  had  allowed  him  to 
depart  at  the  end  of  the  first  week,  it  would  have  -been 
a  very  different  matter :  these  habits  could  not  have  ob- 
tained this  hold  on  his  perhaps  too  susceptible  disposi- 
tion; indeed,  they  would  not  have  had  the  time  to  be- 
come habits  at  all.  Naturally  he  was  resentful,  and  he 
felt  that  he  had  every  right  to  be  resentful;  these 
habits  were  no  fault  of  his. 

But  after  all,  these  were  the  merest  trifles  compared 
with  Elizabeth.  He  had  now  known  her  seventeen 
days,  and  had  spent  in  her  society  some  hours  of  fif- 
teen of  them;  and  with  all  the  force  of  his  simple 
and  direct  nature  he  had  all  the  while  been  growing 
more  and  more  absorbed  in  her.  Never  in  all  his  life 
had  he  enjoyed  a  feeling  about  any  one,  or  anything, 
one-twentieth  as  strong  as  his  feeling  for  her.  She 
was  not  merely  the  chief  thing  in  his  life;  she  had 
been  that  within  three  days  of  their  first  meeting.  He 
could  not  now  see  life  at  all  apart  from  her.  Without 
her  he  could  not  accept  it.  How  was  he  to  disappear 
and  yet  keep  her?  The  difficulty  of  doing  so  seemed 
insuperable. 

He  did  not  allow  himself  to  be  immediately  har- 
assed by  this.  It  was  true  that  the  signing  of  the  con- 
tracts was  the  signal  to  depart.  But  there  was  no  one 
to  make  him  act  on  it.  He  was  rather  of  the  opinion 


WHITAKER'S   DUKEDOM  245 

that  the  value  of  his  work  gave  him  the  right  to  stay 
a  little  longer.  At  any  rate,  he  was  not  going  until  he 
had  found  the  way  of  taking  Elizabeth  with  him,  and 
he  gave  no  little  time  and  thought  to  its  discovery. 

But  though  he  was  not  actually  harassed  by  the 
problem  he  was  somewhat  irritated  by  his  slowness  in 
finding  its  solution;  and  in  the  middle  of  his  dinner 
the  next  evening  he  was  yet  more  irritated  by  a  heavy 
shower,  which  presently  became  a  steady  downpour. 
It  made  it  plainly  impossible  for  Elizabeth  to  meet 
him  in  the  dell  that  night.  Mr.  Brinkman  therefore 
did  not  choose  the  most  propitious  evening  for  ap- 
prising him  of  his  exact  knowledge  of  the  way  in  which 
he  had  attained  to  his  dukedom. 

Mr.  Brinkman  was,  as  a  rule,  an  abstemious  man, 
but  he  braced  himself  for  this  important  interview 
with  half  a  bottle  of  port,  a  wine  he  drank  with  his 
dessert  on  Sunday  afternoons  because  he  believed  it 
to  be  still  the  wine  of  the  English  country  gentleman. 
Thanks  to  its  heartening  warmth,  he  came  through 
the  rain  to  the  Abbey  and  asked  to  see  the  duke  in  a 
fine  confidence. 

Jenkinson  was  surprised  by  this  unusual  and  late 
visit,  and  left  him  in  the  great  hall  while  he  went  to 
see  if  the  duke  would  receive  him. 

James  Whitaker's  ill-temper  had  been  growing  and 
growing  as  he  sat  in  his  smoking-room  listening  to 
the  sound  of  the  rain  which  was  keeping  Elizabeth 
away  from  him,  till  he  might  very  well  be  described 
as  being  in  the  condition  of  spoiling  for  a  fight.  At 
the  news  that  Mr.  Brinkman  had  come  to  see  him  on 


246  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

important  business,  some  of  the  gloom  lifted  from 
his  spirit  and  his  face;  he  felt  in  the  very  mood  to 
deal  faithfully  with  a  blackmailer,  and  with  con- 
siderable heartiness  he  bade  Jenkinson  bring  him  to 
him. 

Mr.  Brinkman  entered  the  room  with  a  brave  air, 
and  was  quite  undaunted  by  his  new  employer's  grim 
face :  as  was  but  natural,  seeing  that  he  had  the  whip- 
hand  of  him. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Brinkman.  Sit  down.  What 
have  you  come  about?"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Mr.  Brinkman  coldly. 

He  chose  the  most  comfortable  easy  chair  with  os- 
tentatious slowness,  sat  down  in  it  and  gazed  at  James 
.Whitaker  with  shining,  triumphant  eyes.  James 
Whitaker  disliked  them  exceedingly. 

"I  have  come  to  see  your  Grace  on  a  matter  of  great 
importance,"  said  Mr.  Brinkman  in  a  pompous  tone, 
laying  a  deep  sarcastic  stress  on  "your  Grace";  and 
he  paused. 

"All  right:  fire  away,"  said  James  Whitaker  care- 
lessly. 

"I  think — I  think  your  Grace  could  guess  what  I 
have  come  about,"  said  the  steward  in  a  tone  of  deep 
meaning  and  with  a  yet  deeper  sarcastic  stress  on  the 
title. 

"Could  I  ?"  said  James  Whitaker,  with  the  same  in- 
difference. 

He  was  thinking  how  very  much  he  disliked  the 
steward's  greedy  little  eyes  and  mean  foxy  face. 

"You  could,  your  Grace.    I'm  sure  you  could,"  said 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  247 

the  steward  yet  more  slowly  and  in  a  tone  of  yet 
deeper  meaning. 

He  had  read  of  men,  chiefly  detectives,  playing  with 
other  men  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse,  and  he  felt 
that  he  was  so  playing  with  this  truculent  scoundrel. 
It  pleased  him  greatly. 

James  Whitaker  gazed  at  him  with  indifferent  eyes ; 
then,  with  sudden  violence,  he  snapped : 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  try !    Get  on !" 

Mr.  Brinkman  had  come  prepared  for  violence,  but 
its  suddenness  jarred  his  nerves  badly. 

"It's  no  use  your  t-t-taking  that  t-t-tone.  You're 
not  in  a  p-p-position  to  do  it,"  he  stammered. 

"Position  ?  What  position  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?" 
roared  James  Whitaker,  pleased  to  have  set  the  stew- 
ard stammering. 

"You  know  quite  well  what  I  mean !  I  know  your 
secret!"  snapped  Mr.  Brinkman,  with  the  air  and 
something  of  the  squeak  of  a  cornered  rat. 

"Secret?    What  secret?"  roared  James  Whitaker. 

"The  secret  of  your  impersonation — how  you  came 
to  be  the  Duke  of  Lanchester!" 

"The  secret  of — are  you  mad,  or  are  you  drunk?" 
bellowed  James  Whitaker. 

Mr.  Brinkman  made  a  great  effort,  got  control  of 
his  voice  and  squeaked  quickly  and  shrilly,  but  clearly : 
"It's  no  good  your  kicking;  the  game's  up.  I  know 
the  whole  affair — every  step  of  it — your  illegitimacy — 
the  way  you  threw  away  your  chances  in  life — espe- 
cially the  mess  you  made  of  stockbroking  and  the  way 
you  grew  more  and  more  disreputable — your  coming 


248  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

down  here  to  see  the  duke — his  being  struck  by  light- 
ning— your  changing  places  with  him  and  concealing 
the  change  by  pretending  it  was  the  result  of  being 
struck  by  lightning  yourself.  I  know  the  whole  busi- 
ness, I  tell  you — every  step  of  it." 

He  paused,  and  James  Whitaker  glared  at  him  with 
unaffected  amazement:  what  was  this  about  his  ille- 
gitimacy and  his  failure  as  a  stockbroker? 

"You  may  well  look  flabbergasted!"  cried  Mr. 
Brinkman  in  a  less  squeaky  voice,  with  a  touch  of 
triumph  in  his  tone.  "You  thought  that  your  luck  had 
covered  all  your  tracks.  You  didn't  allow  for  Eras- 
mus Brinkman." 

He  rapped  his  chest  proudly. 

"Well,  I'm  damned!"  said  James  Whitaker  softly, 
but  in  a  tone  of  unspeakable  ferocity. 

He  saw  the  mistakes  into  which  the  steward  had 
fallen  by  misunderstanding  the  word  broker,  and  he 
saw  that  they  made  him  harmless. 

"I'm  glad  you  see  where  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Brink- 
man on  a  fuller  note  of  triumph.  "You  thought  you 
were  having  everything  your  own  way,  and  had 
scooped  up  the  whole  lot.  But  you  were  wrong — quite 
wrong.  It's  Brinkman,  Lanchester  and  Company ;  and 
Brinkman  is  head  of  the  firm,  drawing  two-thirds — 
two-thirds." 

James  Whitaker's  natural  antipathy  to  the  steward 
rose  to  its  full  height,  and  he  made  no  effort  to  check 
it.  His  instinct  showed  him  the  right  way  to  treat 
him;  and  his  reason  approved  his  instinct. 

Without  a  word  he  sprang  across  the  space  between 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  249 

them  and  caught  Mr.  Brinkman  a  thundering  box  on 
the  ear.  With  a  shrill  yelp  of  pain  Mr.  Brinkman 
rose  to  receive  a  thundering  box  on  the  other  ear  and 
yelp  again.  Then  James  Whitaker  set  about  him;  he 
smacked  him,  he  pommeled  him  and  he  kicked  him. 
He  did  not  hit  him  a  tenth  part  as  hard  as  he  could 
have  hit,  nor  did  he  mark  his  face ;  but  his  smacks  and 
blows  and  kicks  were  exceedingly  painful.  Mr. 
Brinkman  blubbered  as  he  howled,  and  he  howled 
louder  and  louder.  Then  he  threw  himself  on  the 
floor,  with  his  arms  over  his  head,  and  howled  and 
blubbered  there. 

James  Whitaker  kicked 'him  hard  in  the  ribs  three 
times,  then  he  went  to  the  table  and  mixed  himself  a 
brandy  and  soda  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  per- 
formed a  useful  task  in  a  thoroughly  satisfactory 
fashion.  He  lighted  a  cigar,  returned  to  his  easy  chair 
and  gazed  at  the  blubbering  blackmailer  with  an  air 
of  pleasant  content. 

The  vehemence  of  Mr.  Brinkman's  emotion  grew 
less  intense;  his  blubbering  sank  to  a  dismal  snivel; 
and  James  Whitaker  growled: 

"You  infernal  little  blackmailing  scoundrel.  I've 
a  good  mind  to  give  you  the  sack." 

Mr.  Brinkman  only  sniveled. 

"If  I  didn't  think  you  were  drunk,  I  would  give  you 
the  sack,  though  I  don't  want  the  trouble  of  a  new 
man  who  doesn't  know  about  things,"  growled  James 
Whitaker. 

He  was  silent  again  till  Mr.  Brinkman  stirred ;  then 
he  bellowed:  "Get  up!" 


250  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

Mr.  Brinkman  sat  up  slowly  and  stiffly,  sniveling 
still.  With  his  red,  tearful,  dazed  eyes  and  his  red, 
tear-stained,  working  face,  he  was  indeed  a  dismal 
sight.  He  should  have  gazed  at  James  Whitaker  with 
the  eyes  of  hate ;  he  merely  gazed  at  him  with  the  eyes 
of  misery. 

James  Whitaker  scowled  at  him  for  a  good  minute, 
then  he  growled :  "Stop  that  sniveling  and  get  out. 
You'd  better  not  let  Jenkinson  see  you,  or  it  will  be 
all  over  the  place  that  I  gave  you  the  licking  you  asked 
for,  you  dirty  little  hound." 

Mr.  Brinkman  gazed  at  him  with  a  dazed  air;  then 
he  seemed  to  grasp  his  meaning  and  rose  slowly  to 
his  feet.  He  wiped  his  eyes  and  face  with  his  hand- 
kerchief, then  he  went  stiffly,  on  unsteady  feet,  out  of 
the  room.  He  found  the  great  hall  empty  and  hurried 
stiffly  across  it,  down  the  corridor  into  his  office.  He 
turned  the  key  in  the  door,  sat  down,  and  rubbing 
aching  spots,  collected  his  wits.  Then  he  wept  afresh 
that  he  should  have  been  so  hardly  treated. 

James  Whitaker  smoked  on  quietly  in  a  great  satis- 
faction with  the  drastic  fashion  in  which  he  had 
treated  his  steward.  He  was  sure  that  the  pommeling 
had  not  made  him  any  more  dangerous  than  he  had 
been;  he  thought  it  quite  likely  that  it  had  made  him 
less  dangerous.  He  would  have  liked  to  discharge 
him  and  be  done  with  him.  But  it  seemed  more  pru- 
dent to  keep  him  under  his  eye  at  the  Abbey.  He 
would  perceive,  he  thought,  any  symptoms  of  his  grow- 
ing again  dangerous. 

When  Mr.  Brinkman  dried  his  fresh  tears  his  mind 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM     .         251 

was  again  in  working  order,  and  he  found  that  his 
conviction  that  James  Whitaker  was  a  ferocious  and 
illegitimate  stockbroker  was  shaken  to  its  foundations. 
It  would  be  too  much  to  say  that  he  believed  him  to 
be  the  duke,  for  doubts  still  lingered  in  his  mind.  But 
the  longer  he  considered  James  Whitaker's  spontaneity 
of  word  and  action  the  stronger  grew  his  feeling  that 
he  had  been  misled  by  what  he  had  heard  of  Lord 
Edward  Beddard's  quarrel  with  him,  that  he  \vas  in- 
deed the  Duke  of  Lanchester.  Besides,  there  was  one 
fact  in  the  affair  which  weighed  with  him  above  every- 
thing else,  and  that  was  that  James  Whitaker  preferred 
to  put  up  with  a  blackmailer  as  a  steward  than  be  a 
little  bothered  by  a  stranger.  That  was  the  Duke  of 
Lanchester  he  had  always  known. 

When  at  last  he  was  quite  composed  he  came  cau- 
tiously out  of  his  office,  along  the  corridor,  into  the 
great  hall.  To  his  relief  it  was  still  empty.  He  put 
on  his  cap  and  mackintosh,  slipped  out  of  the  door 
and  walked  stiffly  home,  a  sore  dispirited  man. 

As  the  exhilaration  at  having  dealt  faithfully  with 
his  steward  wore  off  James  Whitaker's  gloom  at  being 
robbed  by  the  rain  of  his  evening  with  Elizabeth  grew 
heavier  than  ever ;  and  he  went  to  bed  very  sad. 

But  the  next  morning  was  fine  and  sunny;  and  he 
breakfasted  in  good  spirits.  After  breakfast  he 
thought  it  well  to  go  to  Mr.  Brinkman's  office.  This 
morning  the  steward  once  more  rose  as  sharply  as  his 
stiffness  allowed,  washed  his  hands  at  him  and  said 
in  a  meek  voice: 

"Good  morning,  your  Grace." 


252  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

He  knew  that  he  ought  to  be  full  of  resentment 
against  the  man  who  had  put  such  a  humiliation  on 
him.  But  he  was  not.  If  he  had  been  sure  that  James 
Whitaker  was  an  impostor  he  would  have  hated  him 
freely  enough;  but  he  might  be  the  duke.  If  he  were 
the  duke  he  could  hardly  resent  having  been  thrashed 
for  trying  to  blackmail  him ;  and  in  any  case  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  hate  a  man  of  his  high  rank. 
His  feeling  toward  James  Whitaker  was,  at  any  rate 
for  the  time  being,  a  wholesome  dread. 

"Good  morning.  Sober?"  growled  James  Whit- 
aker. 

Mr.  Brinkman  did  not  reply  to  the  question;  he 
looked  sheepish  and  shuffled  his  feet.  James  Whit- 
aker asked  a  few  questions  about  the  morning's  let- 
ters and  left  him.  Mr.  Brinkman  had  had  thoughts 
of  resigning  his  post:  not  very  serious  thoughts,  for 
it  was  a  good  post.  James  Whitaker's  careless  atti- 
tude to  him  seemed  to  him  to  render  resignation  un- 
necessary, and  he  was  relieved. 

Thanks  to  their  disappointment  the  night  before 
Elizabeth  and  James  Whitaker  met  that  morning  with 
a  greater  delight  than  ever.  But  the  dell,  damp  from 
the  heavy  rain,  was  no  longer  the  place  for  lovers  it 
had  been;  and  he  had  little  difficulty  in  persuading 
her  to  come  to  the  Abbey  in  the  afternoon.  Once 
more  they  approached  it  through  the  shrubberies  and 
entered  it  by  one  of  the  windows  of  the  blue  drawing- 
room  ;  and  when,  an  hour  and  a  half  later,  Jenkinson 
found  them  sitting  on  the  terrace  in  front  of  the  blue 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  253 

drawing-room,  he  supposed  that  Elizabeth  had  just 
come. 

They  had  spent  a  very  pleasant  hour  in  the  library. 
Elizabeth  had  asked  him  to  take  her  to  see  the  rooms 
in  which  he  lived  himself ;  but  he  had  refused  to  take 
the  risk.  It  meant  traversing  all  the  Abbey.  She 
protested  that  now  that  they  were  quite  definitely  going 
to  be  married  she  would  not  be  compromised  by  com- 
ing to  the  Abbey;  but  he  had  it  in  his  mind  that  he 
would  yet  disappear,  and  she  must  not  be  talked  about. 
She  had  grown  the  dearer  to  him  for  that  he  felt  that 
he  was  no  longer  merely  a  means  to  her  of  obtaining 
a  freer  fuller  life ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  grown 
for  her,  as  she  had  grown  for  him,  the  chief  part  of 
life. 

It  was  an  enchanting  thought,  but  naturally  it  made 
it  more  difficult  to  disappear ;  it  made  it  impossible  to 
leave  her  behind  him.  He  felt  that  that  might  easily 
be  nearly  as  cruel  to  her  as  it  would  be  to  himself.  He 
was  loath  enough  to  hurt  himself  so  cruelly,  but  he  was 
infinitely  more  loath  to  hurt  her. 

There  is  no  saying  whence  the  story  of  the  thrashing 
of  Mr.  Brinkman  spread  abroad.  It  may  be  that 
Jenkinson  had  heard  sounds  of  pommeling;  it  may 
have  been  that  the  great  hall  had  not  been  so  empty 
as  the  dazed  and  disheveled  steward  had  supposed 
when  he  hurried  across  it  to  his  office;  or  it  may  be 
that  he  had  failed  to  hide  his  bruises  from  his  wife 
and  she  had  told  one  of  her  sisters,  the  wives  of 
farmers  at  Wodden.  But  in  the  course  of  the  day 


254  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

the  story  had  spread  all  round  the  countryside,  and 
Elizabeth  heard  it  from  her  father  at  dinner. 

She  was  surprised  by  it :  not  by  the  fact  that  James 
Whitaker  had  beaten  his  steward,  but  by  the  fact  that 
he  had  told  her  nothing  about  it.  She  had  believed 
herself  more  in  his  confidence. 

They  met  that  evening  at  their  old  trysting-place, 
the  bridge  over  the  stream,  and  took  the  way  to  a 
thatched  summer-house  in  one  of  the  lower  shrub- 
beries, since  the  dell  would  be  damper  than  ever  at 
night. 

When  they  had  sat  down,  she  came  straight  to  the 
matter  of  interest,  saying:  "Why  did  you  thrash  Mr. 
Brinkman?" 

James  Whitaker  was  taken  aback.  He  had  not 
thought  for  a  moment  that  Brinkman  would  be  so 
foolish,  or  so  careless,  as  to  let  any  one  know  of  his 
punishment. 

"How  do  you  know  I  have  been  thrashing  Brink- 
man?" he  said. 

"Everybody  knows  it!  Why  did  you  do  it?"  she 
said  with  the  firmness  of  one  who  has  a  right  to  an 
answer. 

"Oh,  they  don't  know  why  I  did  it?"  he  said  quickly. 

"No." 

"Well,  I  hammered  him  for  trying  to  blackmail 
me,"  he  said  slowly. 

"How  did  he  try  to  blackmail  you  ?"  she  said  quickly. 

"He  came  to  me  with  a  story  that  I  wasn't  the  duke 
but  a  disreputable  stockbroker  who  had  taken  his 
place." 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  255 

"B-b-but  that  was  what  I  t-t-told  you,"  she  stam- 
mered ;  and  he  could  see  her  eyes  shining  brightly  with 
excitement. 

"His  story  had  more  details  in  it :  you  never  said  I 
was  a  stockbroker,  disreputable  or  otherwise,"  said 
James  Whitaker  calmly.  "And  he  went  on  to  propose 
to  share  my  income." 

"Just  as  I  proposed  to  share  the  d-d-dukedom,"  said 
Elizabeth  faintly. 

"But  he  proposed  to  take  two-thirds  of  the  income. 
You  were  ready  to  go  halves,"  said  James  Whitaker. 
"I  always  did  detest  that  little  man.     He  has  such 
a  mean  face,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"Yes,  he's  a  very  different  thing.  Anybody  would 
be  charmed  to  share  anything  with  you.  But  with 
Brinkman,  no.  As  you  say,  he  hasn't  a  nice  face," 
said  James  Whitaker;  and  he  drew  her  yet  closer  to 
him  and  kissed  her. 

She  quivered  in  his  arms  and  laughed  a  low  con- 
tented laugh. 

"I'm  glad  that  you  didn't  beat  me,"  she  said. 
"No,  this  is  better,"  he  said. 

They  were  silent  for  a  minute  or  two ;  then  he  per- 
ceived that  here  was  an  excellent  opening  for  sound- 
ing her. 

"Suppose  I  turned  out  not  to  be  the  duke  after  all  ?" 
he  said  in  a  sufficiently  careless  tone. 

"I  often  wonder  whether  you  are,"  she  said  quietly. 
"You  wonder  what?"  he  cried. 
"Whether  you're  the  duke.     At  first  I  thought  you 
were.     But  lately — ever  since — since  you  first  kissed 


256  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

me  I've  felt  sometimes  that  you're  not.  But  generally 
I  know  you  must  be ;  it  would  be  so  extraordinary  if 
you  weren't.  But  all  the  same,  I  feel  you're  not,"  she 
said,  speaking  quietly  and  thoughtfully. 

He  was  indeed  surprised  and  amazed. 

"But  if  I'm  not  the  Duke  of  Lanchester,  who  on 
earth  could  I  be?"  he  cried. 

"You'd  be  the  man  they  buried,  or  thought  they 
buried,  of  course — the  tramp,"  she  said  quickly. 

"Well,  I'll  be  shot!"  cried  James  Whitaker. 

She  was  truly  full  of  surprises  to-night.  He  had 
suddenly  learned  not  only  that  she  had  been  cherishing 
these  suspicions  all  the  while,  but  that  she  had  worked 
out  the  process  by  which  he  had  gained  his  dukedom. 
He  stared  at  her  blankly ;  and  he  was  glad  that,  in  that 
'dim  light,  she  could  not  see  his  face. 

"But  after  all  it  doesn't  matter,"  she  said  calmly. 

"It  doesn't?"  he  cried. 

"No.  You've  got  the  dukedom;  and  nobody  can 
turn  you  out,"  she  said  firmly. 

"Oh,  come :  do  you  mean  to  say  you  would  encour- 
age me  to  stick  to  it  if  I  weren't  the  duke?"  he  said 
in  an  aggrieved  tone. 

He  felt  an  odd  sense  of  injury  at  hearing  any  doubts 
thrown  on  his  right  to  the  dukedom. 

"Well,  I've  thought  it  all  out;  and  it  seems  to  me 
that  though  it  would  be  very  wrong  for  any  one  else 
to  have  seized  the  dukedom,  you're  different,"  she  said 
in  a  confident  voice.  "Already  you've  started  to  do 
more  for  the  people  on  the  estate  than  the  last  five 
dukes  have  done.  And  then  if  you  weren't  the  duke, 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  257 

the  Earl  of  Fleetham  would  be ;  and  he  never  expected 
to  be  the  duke ;  so  he  won't  be  disappointed ;  and  any- 
how, he  has  all  the  money  he  wants  as  it  is.  Besides, 
they  say  that  he's  a  dreadful  person — half -cracked." 

"I  see,"  said  James  Whitaker  in  a  non-committal 
tone. 

''And  besides  all  that,  I  have  a  feeling  that  you  were 
meant  to  be  duke,"  she  said  in  a  solemn  tone.  "Dukes 
don't  get  struck  by  lightning  for  nothing.  And  then 
Lord  Edward  Beddard  was  struck  in  a  different  way. 
You  were  meant  to  take  their  place." 

James  Whitaker  had  himself  had  a  feeling  that 
Providence  had  a  hand  in  clearing  these  obstacles  from 
his  path ;  but  on  hearing  its  intentions  firmly  put  into 
words  he  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  yes :  you  were,"  said  Elizabeth  firmly. 

"I  really  believe  you  would  rather  I  weren't  really 
the  duke,"  he  said. 

He  felt  her  quiver;  then  she  said  slowly:  "Well, 
if  you  weren't  really  the  duke,  you — you  wouldn't 
have  been  mixed  up  with  those  horrible  women." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

JAMES  WHITAKER  came  away  from  that  meet- 
ing still  resentful,  unreasonable  as  he  knew  such 
resentment  to  be,  at  her  doubt  that  he  was  the  Duke 
of  Lanchester.  But  that  resentment  did  not  blind  him 
to  the  advantage  of  her  doubt :  it  would  soften  for  her 
the  shock  of  learning,  when  the  time  came  to  tell  her, 
that  he  was  not  the  duke.  It  would  probably  make  it 
easier  to  persuade  her  to  disappear  with  him  when  the 
time  came  to  disappear. 

He  could  indeed  see  no  likelihood  of  his  disappear- 
ing in  the  immediate  future.  Mr.  Brinkman  was  justi- 
fying his  treatment  of  him  by  fawning  on  him  like  a 
beaten  dog;  but  it  was  quite  clear  that,  did  he  disap- 
pear, he  would  be  yelping  savagely  on  his  trail.  His 
desire  for  a  short  holiday  had  indeed  led  him  into  a 
trap. 

He  chafed  bitterly  at  this  constraint.  The  fact  that 
he  was  for  the  while  a  duke  by  compulsion  robbed  the 
dukedom  of  something  of  its  charm,  while  the  pros- 
pect of  beginning  life  afresh,  in  some  younger  coun- 
try, with  Elizabeth  and  the  money  he  had  won  at 
baccarat,  grew  more  and  more  alluring. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  this  easy  and  luxurious 
life  was  developing  his  nature,  for  he  chafed  at  this 

258 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  259 

restraint  which  the  steward  was  exercising  on  him 
with  an  almost  greater  fierceness  than  he  had  chafed 
under  the  oppression  of  his  old  life  at  Hammersmith. 
When  he  dictated  his  letters  to  him,  he  gazed  almost 
lovingly  at  his  skinny  throat,  and  tingled  with  the 
pleasant  thought  of  choking  the  life  out  of  the  little 
brute.  But  he  had  no  intention  of  risking  his  own 
neck  for  the  pleasure,  of  wringing  Mr.  Brinkman's. 

It  began  to  appear  probable  that  he  was  settled  in 
the  dukedom  for  some  time;  and  much  as  he  longed 
to  start  life  afresh  with  Elizabeth  in  a  new  country,  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  he  must  make  the  best  of  it. 
In  his  heart  of  hearts  he  knew  that  he  would  be  very 
well  content  with  the  dukedom,  if  it  were  not  being 
forced  upon  him  by  Mr.  Brinkman. 

He  had,  moreover,  a  feeling,  a  foolish  feeling  which 
he  did  not  encourage,  that  Providence,  or  Fate,  or 
whatever  was  the  directing  impulse  behind  the  affairs 
of  mortals,  was  conspiring  with  Mr.  Brinkman  to  force 
the  dukedom  on  him.  Now  that  the  duke  and  Lord 
Edward  Beddard  were  dead,  it  did  not  seem  to  belong 
to  any  one  in  particular.  He  was  far  too  much  a  son 
of  his  common-sense  age  to  feel  that  the  fact  that  a 
great-great-grandfather  of  the  affluent  but  crack- 
brained  Earl  of  Fleetham  had  been  Duke  of  Lan- 
chester,  gave  him  any  pressing  right  to  it.  Indeed, 
the  thought  that  a  position  of  such  responsibility  and 
power  should  be  filled  by  an  imbecile  was  bitterly  an- 
noying. There  was  so  much  to  be  said  for  its  being 
held  by  a  man  who  would  try  to  put  it  to  a  better  use 
than  keeping  a  racing-stable.  He  would  certainly  re- 


260  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

main  in  it  without  any  very  painful  moral  qualms  as 
long  as  the  danger  of  abandoning  it  kept  him  duke. 

In  spite  of  the  constraint  under  which  he  was  living, 
he  enjoyed  the  next  two  days  exceedingly. 

Then  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day  came  three 
letters.  Lady  Cubbington  wrote  that  she  was  coming 
to  lunch  on  the  morrow  to  try  to  cheer  him  up  after 
the  recent  depressing  event;  Lady  Middlemore  wrote 
to  beg  him  to  come  to  London  and  dine  with  her  on 
the  morrow  and  she  would  try  to  cheer  him  up  after 
the  recent  depressing  event;  and  Miss  Cara  L'Esterre 
wrote  more  briefly  and  slangily,  bidding  him  come  and 
be  cheered  up  at  the  Savoy  on  the  following  night. 
One  such  letter  was  enough  to  dash  the  spirits  of  a 
thoroughly  domesticated  man ;  three  should  have  been 
crushing.  But  owing  to  the  pressure  of  the  ducal  life 
James  Whitaker  was  less  domesticated  than  he  had 
been;  and  cheered  by  the  conviction  that  nothing 
feebler  than  a  traction  engine  could  get  him  within 
three  hundred  yards  of  any  of  the  three  ladies  he  ate 
his  breakfast  with  a  very  good  appetite. 

None  the  less,  though  by  no  means  panic-stricken, 
he  was  troubled  by  this  simultaneous  onslaught.  It 
grew  clearer  and  clearer  that,  if  he  did  not  disappear, 
there  was  only  one  way  out  of  these  entanglements 
in  which  his  predecessor  had  so  thoughtlessly  landed 
him,  and  that  was  marriage  with  a  fourth  person. 

Then  out  of  this  discomfort  arose  a  desire,  the  de- 
sire to  get  outside  the  whole  situation  and  consider  it 
from  a  distance.  He  thought  that  he  could  not  do 
better  than  retire  to  his  shop  at  Hammersmith  and  con- 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  261 

sider  it  from  there.  He  was  used  to  considering  things 
there,  for  during  the  last  ten  years  he  had  done  most 
of  his  thinking  in  the  house  in  Watergate  Street. 

Moreover,  it  would  be  killing  two  birds  with  one 
stone.  He  was  resolved  to  free  himself  for  good 
from  the  old  cramped  life;  and  he  was  eager  to  give 
Millicent  the  pleasure  of  feeling  that  she  was  quite 
free  from  him,  free  to  lead  her  own  simple  cultured 
life,  untroubled  by  any  demands  from  him  for  house- 
keeping or  affection.  Again,  a  few  days  in  the  house 
in  Watergate  Street  would  make  it  clear  whether  he 
would  be  able,  after  the  pleasant  full  life  he  was  lead- 
ing at  the  Abbey,  to  endure  at  all  life  on  the  old  terms. 
He  had  the  strongest  suspicion  that  he  would  not.  He 
was  quite  sure  that  he  could  not  endure  it  apart  from 
Elizabeth. 

He  went  to  his  sitting-room,  and  using  a  pencil, 
since  it  was  easier  to  imitate  his  predecessor's  hand- 
writing in  pencil  than  in  ink,  he  wrote  the  three  needful 
telegrams.  He  told  Lady  Cubbington  that  he  was 
going  to  London  on  the  morning  of  the  morrow ;  and 
he  told  Lady  Middlemore  and  Miss  Cara  L'Esterre 
that  it  was  impossible  to  accept  their  invitations.  He 
sent  the  telegrams  to  the  village  post-office,  and  pres- 
ently betook  himself  to  meet  Elizabeth.  When  he  told 
her  that  he  was  going  to  London  they  were  both  de- 
pressed by  the  thought  of  their  coming  separation, 
though  it  was  only  for  three  days. 

On  the  following  afternoon  he  motored  to  London, 
as  he  had  learned  had  been  the  habit  of  his  predeces- 
sor, and  left  the  portmanteau,  which  Tomkins  had 


262  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

packed  so  full  of  clothes  for  him,  at  the  Ritz.  He 
told  the  clerk  that  he  was  uncertain  whether  he  would 
be  back  to  sleep,  and  took  the  tube  to  Hammersmith. 

When  he  came  out  of  the  tube  into  the  Broadway, 
he  was  at  once  afflicted  with  an  uneasiness  little  short 
of  nausea.  He  felt  plunged  once  more  into  the  old 
life,  the  wearisome,  ugly,  stifling  life  of  pointless 
struggle  and  miserable  aims,  the  life  of  dirty  shirts, 
poor  food  badly  cooked,  and  tiresome,  cultured,  sandy 
Millicent.  He  was  smitten  with  some  compunction 
that  he  should  think  so  unkindly  of  her.  He  would 
never  have  allowed  himself  to  think  so  of  her  before 
his  holiday.  But  the  freedom  in  which  he  had  been 
living  was  engendering  in  him  a  new  frankness  with 
himself :  she  was  sandy,  she  was  cultured,  and  she  did 
weary  him;  he  would  not  be  ashamed  of  himself.  He 
did,  however,  excuse  himself  somewhat  by  assuring 
himself  that  she  regarded  him  with  an  even  greater 
aversion  than  he  regarded  her. 

He  walked  slowly  down  to  Watergate  Street,  de- 
testing Hammersmith  more  and  more.  He  met  two 
acquaintances,  formerly  Tigers,  coming  out  of  a  saloon 
bar,  and  greeted  them  glumly.  He  was  pleased  to 
perceive  that  they  plainly  did  not  observe  anything 
unusual  in  his  appearance.  He  had  been  careful  to 
dress  in  a  dark  tweed  suit  and  a  cap  of  the  same  stuff; 
and  they  naturally  lacked  the  knowledge  to  perceive 
how  well  the  clothes  were  cut. 

When  he  came  to  Watergate  Street  he  found  that  it 
had,  to  his  eyes,  shrunk  and  grown  more  squalid ;  and 
when  he  came  into  the  shop  he  found  that  it  smelled 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  263 

vilely.  Glue  that  had  gone  bad,  the  old  stuffing  of 
second-hand  couches  which  he  had  been  restuffmg, 
rotting  leather,  filled  it  with  the  stalest  smell.  He  sup- 
posed that  when,  as  a  boy,  he  first  came  to  the  shop 
he  had  observed  the  smell ;  but  he  had  lived  in  it,  un- 
aware, for  years.  The  air  of  Lanchester  had  purified 
his  nostrils. 

He  walked  through  the  shop  and  found  Millicent 
sitting  reading  in  the  stuffy  little  parlor  behind  it.  He 
thought  that  she  looked  sandier  than  ever.  She  rose 
quickly,  nervously,  at  the  sight  of  him;  and  he  saw 
plainly  the  effort  she  made  to  look  pleased  at  his  return. 
It  was  not  very  successful.  He  felt  her  shrink  as  he 
kissed  her  cheek.  He  had  long  known  that  any  con- 
tact, physical  contact,  with  him  was  unpleasant  to  her, 
and  he  had  long  thought  that  such  a  sexless,  anemic 
creature  as  she  should  never  have  married.  He  felt 
that  not  merely  he,  but  any  husband,  would  have  be- 
come repugnant  to  her.  Well,  it  was  all  the  better: 
he  need  be  under  no  compunction  whatever  at  leaving 
her ;  she  would  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  him.  He  observed 
that  the  stuffy  little  parlor  reeked  most  abominably 
of  cockroaches  and  pickles. 

They  talked  for  a  while  about  his  stay  in  the  coun- 
try ;  and  he  told  her  that  he  had  taken  service  with  a 
firm  engaged  in  buying  old  furniture  all  over  England 
and  exporting  it  to  New  York.  She  seemed  very  little 
interested  in  the  matter  till  he  said  that  he  had  ar- 
ranged to  go  to  New  York  for  two  or  three  years  to 
take  a  post  in  the  American  branch  of  the  firm. 

Her  pale  eyes  brightened  at  the  thought  of  being 


264  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

rid  of  him  for  so  long.  Then  her  face  fell  again;  and 
she  said  quickly: 

"I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  like  New  York.  It  wouldn't 
agree  with  me." 

"I'm  afraid  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  take  you  with 
me.  Living  is  so  expensive  there;  and  my  salary 
wouldn't  run  to  two  of  us,"  he  said. 

Her  pale  eyes  shone  again  with  relief;  and  she  said 
eagerly :  "And  you'll  be  gone  two  years  ?" 

"At  least,"  he  said,  and  heard  her  sigh  of  pleasure. 

She  rang  for  Amy  and  told  her  to  go  and  get  some 
chops  for  his  supper.  The  old  woman,  her  eyes  full  of 
her  perpetual  dull  hostility  to  him  (she  was  the  parti- 
san of  Millicent  and  had,  moreover,  always  resented 
his  promotion  from  the  kitchen  to  the  parlor),  grum- 
bled at  not  having  been  informed  early  in  the  day  that 
he  was  returning.  He  observed  that  she  added  an- 
other unpleasant  scent  to  the  stale-smelling  room. 

He  had  no  desire  to  taste  ever  again  a  chop  of 
Amy's  cooking;  and  he  gave  her  five  dollars  and  bade 
her  buy  a  roast  chicken  and  a  tongue.  When  she  had 
gone,  he  discussed  Millicent's  future.  His  suggestion 
was  that  she  should  sell  the  Hammersmith  house  (the 
shop  and  business  must  of  course  be  sold,  since  he 
would  not  be  there  to  manage  them)  and  buy  a  cot- 
tage in  the  country  at  Sarratt,  or  Flaunden,  or  Chip- 
perfield,  but  at  any  rate  somewhere  on  that  plateau 
because  she  had  stayed  at  Sarratt  and  found  that  it 
suited  her.  The  money  from  the  sale  of  the  house 
and  shop  would  pay  for  the  cottage;  and  he  would 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  265 

allow  her  five  dollars  a  week  out  of  his  salary.  On  that 
she  could  live  in  luxury  with  Amy  as  her  servant. 

Naturally  she  was  startled  at  the  thought  of  this 
uprooting  from  the  life  she  knew.  But  the  idea  of  a 
cottage  in  the  country  attracted  her.  He  was  resolved 
to  cover  up  his  tracks;  and  he  convinced  her  that  it 
was  impossible  for  her  to  continue  to  live  in  the  Ham- 
mersmith house  on  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a 
year.  Then  he  told  her  that  he  would  be  sailing  to 
New  York  in  less  than  a  week,  and  that  he  would  have 
to  set  things  in  train  before  his  departure.  He  did  not 
wish  her  to  linger  on  in  Hammersmith,  for  in  spite  of 
his  assurance  that  Mr.  Brinkman  was  well  on  the  way 
to  lick  the  hand  that  beat  him,  accident  might  give  him 
a  clue  to  the  Hammersmith  shop;  and  he  wished  it 
swept  away  with  the  least  possible  delay. 

He  was  so  pleased  with  the  progress  he  had  made 
with  her  that  he  ate  his  supper  of  cold  chicken  and 
tongue  with  relish,  and  enjoyed  the  jug  of  beer  from 
the  Prince  of  Wales  public-house.  He  found  his  bed- 
room cramped  and  dingy,  but  less  of  an  offense  to  his 
nostrils  than  the  rest  of  the  house.  The  middle  shelf 
of  the  bookcase  which  stood  against  the  wall  opposite 
the  bed,  on  which  were  ranged  his  well-thumbed  fa- 
vorite friends  and  comforters,  was  the  first  thing  in 
the  house  on  which  his  eyes  rested  with  pleasure.  He 
decided  that  he  would  take  away  with  him  the  books 
on  that  shelf,  those  and  the  few  poor  relics  of  his  un- 
fortunate father. 

He  slept  well,  but  did  not  immediately  on  waking 


266  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

recognize  his  surroundings.  When  he  did,  it  strucK 
him  that  there  was  not  any  real  need  for  him  to  spend 
another  night  in  the  house.  To  Millicent  he  could  al- 
ways make  the  excuse  that  business  prevented  him 
from  coming  back;  and  with  regard  to  the  expense, 
he  had  brought  with  him  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
of  the  duke's  money  from  the  secret  drawer  in  the 
bureau,  in  addition  to  his  own  money  won  at  baccarat. 
He  would  stay  at  the  Ritz,  as  his  predecessor  had  been 
used  to  do ;  and  naturally  the  Lanchester  money  paid 
the  expenses  of  the  Duke  of  Lanchester. 

There  was  no  bathroom  in  the  house ;  and  he  missed 
his  bath.  The  tea,  the  stale  bread,  the  margarine,  the 
bloaters  of  old  Amy's  grubby  cooking  seemed  to  him 
detestable.  He  rose  from  breakfast  resolved  never  to 
eat  or  sleep  in  the  house  again.  Before  he  went  out 
he  erased  his  name  from  the  fly-leaves  of  the  books 
he  proposed  to  take  with  him,  and  packed  them  in  a 
parcel,  which  he  addressed  to  the  Duke  of  Lanchester 
at  the  Ritz.  He  posted  it  at  the  post-office  in  the 
Broadway,  and  then  betook  himself  to  Lloyds'  bank. 
He  had  always  banked  at  the  Home  Counties  Bank, 
as  William  Ward  had  done.  But  his  account  had  been 
of  such  nature  that  his  sudden  production  of  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  would  excite  surprise.  It  took  him  no 
long  time  to  arrange  with  the  manager  the  prepara- 
tion of  the  settlement,  of  which  the  bank  should  act 
as  trustee,  of  six  thousand  dollars  on  Millicent,  to  be 
invested  so  as  to  bring  her  in  at  least  five  dollars  a 
week,  and  to  be  paid  to  her  weekly.  Considering  her 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  267 

fecklessness,  especially  in  matters  of  business,  he 
thought  that  arrangement  the  best  for  her. 

That  done  he  betook  himself  to  a  house-agent  and 
arranged  with  him  to  sell  the  house  and  such  of  the 
furniture  as  Millicent  would  not  want  for  her  cot- 
tage in  the  country.  As  the  bonds  which  bound  him 
to  it  loosened,  Hammersmith  lost  some  of  its  sordid 
and  repellent  air;  but  its  smell  still  offended  Jiis 
nostrils. 

He  went  back  to  the  shop  and  found  Millicent  read- 
ing in  the  stuffy  parlor.  He  told  her  what  he  had  done ; 
and  she  was  surprised  and  disturbed  to  find  herself 
confronted  by  so  sudden  an  uprooting.  She  had  re- 
garded it  vaguely  as  something  to  happen  some  time 
in  the  future;  and  left  to  herself,  would  have  played 
feebly  with  the  idea  for  months.  This  sudden  call 
to  action  was  most  disturbing;  and  old  Amy  was  in- 
dignant indeed.  James  Whitaker  said  that  he  must 
go  to  London  on  business,  and  left  them,  lamenting 
and  indignant,  to  talk  their  discomfort  off. 

He  found  that  he  had  a  small  suite  of  rooms  at 
the  hotel,  sitting-room,  bedroom  and  bathroom.  He 
had  a  bath  and  changed  into  clothes  to  which  the  odor 
of  Hammersmith  did  not  cling.  He  lunched  in  the 
grill-room  with  an  appreciation  of  the  cooking  the 
stronger  for  his  brief  return  to  the  cooking  of  Amy. 

After  lunch  he  thought  that  it  would  be  wise  to  go 
to  one  of  the  duke's  clubs  for  a  while,  and  be  seen 
there.  Moreover,  he  was  a  little  curious  to  see  what 
club  life  was  like.  He  betook  himself  to  the  Para- 


268  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

gon,  therefore,  since  he  had  gathered  from  the  talk 
of  Sir  Richard  Starton  that  that  was  the  club  his  prede- 
cessor had  frequented;  and  there  he  found  two  men 
who  had  been  at  his  baccarat  party.  He  was  annoyed 
to  find  that  he  had  forgotten  their  names,  but  presently 
in  the  course  of  their  talk,  he  learned  them  again.  They 
asked  him  to  come  to  the  card-room  to  play  auction, 
and  gave  him  the  opportunity  he  desired  of  talking 
about  his  loss  of  memory  since  he  had  been  struck  by 
lightning.  He  did  not  find  their  talk  of  any  interest 
to  him ;  and  after  half  an  hour  of  it  he  left  the  club. 

He  walked  down  Piccadilly  slowly,  trying  to  get 
the  proper  pleasure  from  his  new  outlook  on  it  from 
his  ducal  elevation.  But  it  was  slowly  borne  in  upon 
him  that  he  did  not,  even  in  these  circumstances, 
greatly  like  it ;  he  believed  that  the  sweet  air  and  beau- 
tiful country  around  the  Abbey  had  spoiled  London 
for  him.  He  wished  that  he  had  kept  the  motor-car 
in  town ;  he  would  have  driven  out  to  Richmond  Park. 

He  had  just  passed  the  bottom  of  Bond  Street  when 
an  electric  coupe  ran  up  to  the  curb,  stopped,  and  a 
charming  excited  voice  cried : 

"John!    John!" 

He  remembered,  just  in  time,  that  his  name  was 
John,  and  turned  to  see  Lady  Middlemore's  face 
framed  in  the  window  of  the  coupe.  She  was  flushed ; 
and  her  eyes  were  shining  with  delight  at  the  sight  of 
him. 

He  was  taken  aback  at  the  sight  of  her,  but  not 
quite  unpleasantly.  Her  flushed  face  was  charming; 
and  she  was  truly  the  type  naturally  attractive  to  him, 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  269 

though  Elizabeth  left  little  room  in  his  heart  for  any 
one  else  at  the  moment.  When  she  threw  open  the 
door  of  the  coupe  and  bade  him  get  in,  he  had  not 
the  heart  to  dash  the  joy  in  her  shining  eyes. 

"So  you've  come  to  town  after  all !"  she  cried. 

"Yes,  I  had  to — business,"  he  growled. 

"Oh,  yes :  I  know  that  business,"  she  said  jealously. 

He  gathered  from  her  tone  that  she  was  suggesting 
that  some  other  woman  had  brought  him  to  London; 
and  he  said  nothing. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  she  said. 

"Let's  go  to  Richmond  Park  and  get  some  clean 
air,"  he  said.  "This  place  is  simply  poisonous." 

"Don't  say  that  that  wretched  lightning-stroke  has 
set  you  against  London,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  was  the  lightning-stroke 
or  not;  but  London  seems  to  me  to  have  such  a  vile 
smell.  I  want  to  get  back  to  the  Abbey,"  he  growlel. 

"You  have  changed,"  she  said.  "But  perhaps — « 
perhaps  there's  a  woman  at  the  Abbey." 

James  Whitaker  felt  himself  blushing  guiltily;  and 
he  growled  quickly:  "You  seem  to  think  of  nothing 
but  women." 

"And  you?"  she  said. 

He  did  not  answer;  and  she  told  her  chauffeur  to 
drive  to  Richmond  Park. 

Then,  smiling  happily,  she  nestled  closer  to  him; 
and  he  perceived  that  she  expected  him  to  hold  her 
there.  He  did  not  like  to  disappoint  her;  and  since, 
moreover,  her  waist  was  naturally  of  the  type  which 
attracted  his  arm,  he  put  it  round  it  without  any  great 


270  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

reluctance,  though  he  would  have  very  much  preferred 
it  to  be  the  waist  of  Elizabeth. 

She  seemed  satisfied  with  his  indulging  her  to  this 
point,  and  talked  to  him  lightly  and  brightly,  after 
some  inquiries  in  the  proper  mournful  tone  concerning 
the  end  of  Lord  Edward  Beddard,  about  his  life  at  the 
Abbey,  and  his  neighbors,  chiefly  about  those  of  them 
with  whom  he  had  played  baccarat.  She  amused  him ; 
she  seemed  of  the  same  bright,  alert  spirit  as  Eliza- 
beth. She  did  not  spare  Lady  Cubbington;  but  the 
shafts  which  she  let  fly  at  her,  if  they  were  winged 
with  malice,  were  tipped  with  wit. 

When  they  came  into  the  park  her  words  came 
more  slowly  and  grew  fewer.  He  reflected  on  the 
monstrous  unfairness  of  the  distribution  of  women: 
as  James  Whitaker  he  would  have  been  happy  and 
content  with  Elizabeth,  or  Lady  Middlemore,  or  Lady 
Cubbington,  and  none  of  them  had  come  his  way; 
as  Duke  of  Lanchester  all  three  of  them  were  thrust 
upon  him — to  say  nothing  of  Miss  Cara  L'Esterre. 

In  the  more  wooded  part  of  the  park,  descending 
from  the  coupe,  they  strolled  for  an  hour  under  the 
trees ;  and  he  found  it  a  very  pleasant  way  of  whiling 
away  some  of  his  enforced  stay  in  London,  away  from 
Elizabeth.^  Truly  no  squalid  sight  or  noxious  smell 
offended  him  here.  They  went  to  the  Star  and  Gar- 
ter and  had  their  tea  in  a  room  from  which  they 
had  the  famous  view  up  the  winding  Thames,  and 
they  lingered  over  it.  He  was  finding  it  more  and 
more  pleasant  to  be  with  her.  She  was  a  charming 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  271 

stimulant;  he  was  talking  almost  as  freely  with  her 
as  he  did  with  Elizabeth. 

When  they  came  out  of  the  hotel,  they  drove  round 
the  park  once  more;  and  its  soothing  greenery  and 
clean  air  weakened  a  little  his  unpleasant  memories 
of  his  return  to  Hammersmith.  It  was  half  past  seven 
before  they  reached  Piccadilly;  and  he  needed  no 
pressing  to  accept  her  invitation  to  dine  at  her  flat  and 
go  with  her  to  the  Russian  ballet  at  Covent  Garden. 
She  left  him  at  the  Ritz;  he  dressed,  and  went  to 
Mount  Street. 

Hers  was  a  charming  flat,  admirably  decorated  to 
match  her  dark  beauty ;  the  dinner  was  excellent ;  and 
she  was  even  more  stimulating  than  she  had  been  in 
the  afternoon.  The  shop  at  Hammersmith  was  with- 
drawing farther  into  the  distance.  He  felt  that  he 
was  in  his  proper  element:  he  was  entertained  and 
amused  (the  appeal  was  all  the  while  to  his  intelli- 
gence), and  he  was  pleased  to  find  that  he  could  hold 
his  own.  He  did  not  shine,  indeed  (he  knew  that  he 
would  never  shine),  but  he  held  his  own;  and  greatly 
it  pleased  him.  All  the  while  she  kept  Elizabeth  vividly 
in  his  mind.  Elizabeth  was  not  so  amusing  or  enter- 
taining, indeed,  but  she  saw  the  world  with  the  same 
keen  clear  vision.  In  another  five  or  six  years,  when 
she  had  reached  Lady  Middlemore's  age  and  seen  as 
much  of  it,  she  might  have  an  even  firmer  grasp  of 
the  facts  of  it;  and  always  she  was  more  beautiful 
than  Lady  Middlemore. 

He  was  sorry  to  leave  the  pleasant  flat   for  the 


272  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

Russian  ballet.  He  had  never  seen  the  Russian 
dancers.  In  the  old  days,  when  they  were  at  their 
keenest  in  the  pursuit  of  culture,  he  and  Millicent  had 
been  wont  to  come  to  the  gallery  to  hear  and  see 
operas  of  Wagner;  and  their  enjoyment  of  them  had 
been  much  increased  by  the  sense  that  they  were  per- 
forming a  serious  duty.  He  found  it  more  pleasant, 
though  less  thrilling,  to  watch  the  dancers  from  a 
comfortable  box.  Between  the  ballets  three  men  came 
to  it;  and  all  of  them  knew  him.  Also  they  had  heard 
that  he  had  lost  his  memory. 

One  of  them,  Lord  Orrington,  when  he  found  that 
James  Whitaker  did  not  recognize  him,  said  that  it 
must  be  very  pleasant,  as  well  as  useful,  to  lose  one's 
memory. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it !"  growled  James  Whitaker  quickly. 
"Look  at  all  the  pleasant  things  one  has  forgotten." 

"You  haven't  forgotten  one  pleasant  thing,  at  any 
rate,"  said  Lord  Orrington,  looking  at  Lady  Middle- 
more. 

"But  he  had  to  be  reminded!"  cried  Lady  Middle- 
more. 

"Oh,  no:  I  didn't  really — it  was  only  just  for  a 
moment,"  growled  James  Whitaker. 

They  debated  till  the  curtain  rose  whether  the  pleas- 
ant things  one  would  forget  with  regret  would  out- 
weigh the  unpleasant  things  one  would  forget  so  gladly. 

James  Whitaker  perceived  that  it  would  be  as  safe 
for  him  to  move  among  his  predecessor's  friends  in 
London  as  it  had  been  to  move  among  those  in  the 
country.  Truly,  now  that  he  had  hushed  Mr.  Brink- 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  273 

man,  there  seemed  to  be  no  one  to  dispute  his  posses- 
sion of  the  dukedom — so  long  as  he  did  not  aban- 
don it. 

He  drove  back  with  Lady  Middlemore  to  her  flat, 
and  drank  a  brandy  and  soda  and  smoked  a  cigarette 
while  she  talked  about  the  evening.  Then  she  fell 
silent;  and  he  was  about  to  rise  and  go,  when  she 
sighed  and  said : 

"Poor  Harry!" 

"Why,  what's  happened  to  him?"  he  said  quickly. 

"Nothing  yet.  But  now  that  it's  no  use,  he's  certain 
to  go  and  get  eaten  by  a  lion,"  she  said  sadly. 

He  felt  that  the  least  he  could  do  was  to  comfort 
her  with  kisses. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  took  his  leave.  But  before  he 
went  she  had  learned  that  he  would  be  staying  in  Lon- 
don over  the  morrow,  and  insisted  on  his  dining  with 
her  again  and  going  afterward  to  a  musical  comedy. 
He  and  Millicent  had  been  used  to  having  souls  above 
musical  comedy ;  but  he  accepted  the  invitation  readily 
enough,  since  he  would  get  through  the  business  in 
hand  during  the  day,  and  would  be  at  a  loose  end 
during  the  evening. 

The  next  morning  he  caught  the  eleven  o'clock  train 
at  Euston  and  went  to  King's  Langley.  It  was  so  fine 
a  day  that  he  resolved  to  go  hunting  a  cottage  for 
Millicent  on  foot.  As  he  walked  across  the  fields 
to  Chipperfield  he  thought  of  his  walk  from  Bowdes- 
well  to  Lanchester.  It  seemed  hardly  possible  that 
he  had  walked  it  less  than  a  month  ago;  so  many 
things  had  happened. 


274  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

At  Chipperfield  and  at  Flaunden  there  was  no  cot- 
tage to  let  or  be  sold.  But  at  Bovingdon  he  found 
the  kind  of  cottage  he  was  seeking,  with  six  rooms, 
a  thatched  roof,  white-washed  walls,  standing  in  a 
little  garden  easily  to  be  cultivated  by  Millicent  and 
old  Amy.  He  had  come  to  terms  with  the  landlord 
in  little  more  than  half  an  hour,  paid  him  a  quarter's 
rent  in  advance,  and  arranged  with  him  to  receive 
Millicent's  furniture  when  it  came  and  have  it  set  in 
the  cottage  for  her,  and  to  send  in  a  woman  to  have 
the  cottage  clean  and  ready  for  her  when  she  came 
down  to  it.  He  took  the  names  of  the  village  grocer 
and  butcher,  walked  to  Boxmoor  station,  and  reached 
London  at  a  few  minutes  past  five.  He  went  straight 
to  the  Ritz,  had  tea  there,  and  sat  in  the  lounge,  rest- 
ing pleasantly  after  his  walk,  till  it  was  time  to  dress 
for  dinner. 

Lady  Middlemore  again  welcomed  him  warmly,  and 
she  was  wearing  a  gown  in  which  he  found  that  she 
looked  more  charming  even  than  the  night  before.  Also 
he  found  her  no  less  stimulating;  indeed,  as  he  grew 
more  at  home  with  her  and  understood  her  better,  he 
found  her  even  more  stimulating.  Owing  to  the  ex- 
cellent dinner  he  had  had,  or  to  the  charming  compan- 
ion with  whom  he  was  seeing  it,  he  found  the  musical 
comedy  sufficiently  entertaining.  He  felt  that  he 
ought  to  be  displeased  at  this,  as  being  a  sign  that  the 
ducal  life  was  not  only  impairing  his  natural  domesti- 
catedness,  but  also  the  strenuousness  of  soul  which 
had  been  one  of  his  and  Millicent's  cultured  ideals. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  275 

But  he  found  that  he  could  not  be  displeased;  he  was 
in  far  too  good  a  temper  with  the  world. 

After  the  theater  they  supped  very  pleasantly  at  the 
Ritz.  He  was  assured  that  in  the  more  stimulating 
air  of  the  ducal  life  his  nature  was  expanding;  life 
was  fuller  of  meaning,  and  he  was  quicker  to  grasp  it. 
But  he  gathered  that  he  was  expanding  -beyond  his 
predecessor.  More  than  once  Lady  Middlemore  said 
that  being  struck  by  lightning  had  changed  him,  in  a 
tone  of  pleased  surprise,  which  assured  him  of  that. 

He  escorted  her  to  her  flat,  and  came  into  it  to 
smoke  a  last  cigarette.  He  told  her  that  he  was  re- 
turning to  the  Abbey  on  the  morrow. 

She  sighed  and  said :   "I  wish  you  weren't." 

"Well,  these  improvements  I'm  making — it's  really 
necessary  to  be  on  the  spot,"  he  said. 

"It's  really  necessary  to  get  back  to  her,"  she  said, 
mimicking  his  tone.  Then  she  looked  at  him  with 
very  earnest  eyes  and  said :  "I  know  now  that  it  is 
another  woman — for  certain.  You've  let  it  out  again 
and  again — though  it  isn't  Lady  Cubbington.  But  all 
the  same  she  won't  last  forever — not  with  you." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  James  Whitaker  soberly. 

She  left  it  at  that. 

His  leave-taking  was  duly  affectionate. 

He  awoke  next  morning  in  the  highest  spirits  at 
the  thought  that  he  would  be  with  Elizabeth  before 
night.  He  was  at  Hammersmith  before  eleven,  went 
to  the  house-agent,  and  found  that  he  had  already  had 
bills  printed  advertising  the  sale  of  the  house  in  Water- 


276  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

gate  Street.  The  sale  would  take  place  within  a  fort- 
night. 

He  went  briskly  to  the  house  in  Watergate  Street; 
and  when  he  drew  near  it  he  saw  a  small  group  of 
women  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  looking  at  it. 
Then  he  fancied  that  they  looked  at  him  oddly.  His 
heart  began  to  beat  more  quickly:  he  felt  that  some- 
thing was  wrong.  Could  Brinkman  have  got  on  his 
track  by  some  accident?  He  knocked  at  the  door 
sharply,  impatiently. 

Amy  opened  it,  red-eyed,  her  cheeks  stained  with 
two  inconceivably  grimy  tracks  of  tears. 

"Whatever's  the  matter?"  he  cried. 

The  old  woman's  face  was  contorted  with  a  grimace 
of  misery,  and  she  moaned :  "It's  the  missis — she's — 
she's  dead." 

"She's  what?"  cried  James  Whitaker;  and  he 
stepped  over  the  threshold  and  shut  the  door  heavily. 

"She's  dead;  an'  she's  been  dead  since  the  night 
before  last,"  she  said.  Then  her  eyes  began  to  gleam, 
and  she  said  with  a  tremulous  fierceness:  "An'  it's 
your  fault.  It  was  you  as  upset  her — trying  to  drag 
'er  away  from  'er  'ome  where  she'd  lived  all  'er  life, 
of  a  sudden,  wivout  any  warning.  She  didn't  know 
whether  she  was  standin'  on  'er  'ead  or  'er  'eels,  pore 
lamb.  An'  'oo  would,  tyken  suddenlike  like  that? 
Natchrally  she  wouldn't  notice  'ow  much  of  that  nasty 
stuff  she  was  tyking." 

"Chloral?"  said  James  Whitaker. 

"Verynul.  An'  there  was  no  knowing  where  to  find 
you;  and  the  inquest  at  'arf  past  twelve." 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  277 

The  suddenness  of  the  catastrophe  was,  for  the 
while,  almost  dazing;  he  could  scarcely  follow  the  ex- 
planation of  Isabel  Ward,  Millicent's  cousin,  whom 
Amy  had  summoned  to  the  house ;  and  the  inquest  was 
on  him  before  he  had  quite  recovered  from  the  con- 
fusion into  which  he  had  been  thrown.  Fortunately 
it  was  very  short.  There  was  evidence  and  to  spare 
that  Millicent  had  been  an  habitual  taker  of  narcotics ; 
and  old  Amy  had  actually  been  with  her  in  her  bed- 
room when  she  had  poured  out  the  overdose. 

When  the  inquest  was  over  he  set  heavily  about 
making  preparations  for  the  funeral.  Isabel  Ward 
helped  him,  writing  the  invitations ;  he  had  but  to  in- 
struct the  undertaker.  That  done,  he  left  her  in  charge 
of  the  house,  telling  her  that  business  called  him  into 
town,  and  went  back  to  the  Ritz.  He  was  feeling 
shaken  and  miserable;  he  wanted  to  get  away  from 
this  new  oppression;  he  wanted  Elizabeth. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

'HEN  he  reached  the  Ritz,  at  a  quarter  to  three 
he  found  that  Hibbert  and  the  car  had  come  to 
take  him  back  to  the  Abbey.    He  ate  some  sandwiches 
paid  his  bill  and  started  at  a  few  minutes  to  three. 

When  at  last  they  were  free  of  London,  and  moving 
at  a  pleasant  pace  among  the  meadows  and  woods  his 
oppression  began  to  lift,  the  wretchedness,  into  which 
the  discovery  and  happenings  of  the  morning  had 
plunged  him,  to  subside.  By  the  time  they  were  thirty 
miles  out  of  London  his  spirit  was  almost  serene- 
Hammersmith  and  the  dead  Millicent  were  little  more 
than  an  ugly  dream  of  the  night  before;  the  sight  of 
Elizabeth  would  banish  the  memory  of  them  from  his 
mind  for  hours.  They  reached  the  Abbey  at  a  few 
minutes  past  five. 

As  he  drew  near  it  James  Whitaker's  heart  beat  high 
at  the  thought  that  presently  he  would  be  near  Eliza- 
beth, and  might  even  find  her  in  the  dell  before  dinner. 
It  swelled  too  within  him  with  an  extraordinary  sense 
of  home-coming,  and  he  realized  that,  since  the  mis- 
Drtunes  of  his  father  had  broken  up  the  home  of  his 
childhood,  he  had  never  till  now  enjoyed  the  genuine 
home-feeling  about  any  place  in  which  he  had  lived. 

The  first  sight  of  the  Abbey,  set  among  its  shrub- 
beries in  the  green  park  brightened  by  the  shining 
reaches  of  the  Wyper,  thrilled  him.  The  thought  that 

278 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  279 

it  was  his,  his  home,  for  at  any  rate  as  many  days  as 
he  chose  to  keep  it,  was  very  pleasant.  He  frowned  at 
the  thought  of  the  pang  it  would  cost  him,  even  though 
Elizabeth  went  with  him,  to  leave  it.  He  wondered 
if  he  would  ever  brace  himself  to  the  sacrifice. 

It  was  pleasant  also  to  be  welcomed  by  Jenkinson 
and  two  footmen,  all  smiling  and  clean  in  bright  liv- 
eries, so  strong  a  contrast  to  the  lowering,  dingy,  mal- 
odorous Amy.  He  could  not,  indeed,  understand  why 
they  were  so  pleased  to  see  him,  since  his  absence 
must  mean  more  leisure  and  freedom  for  them.  But 
it  was  quite  clear  that  his  return  did  bring  an  unaf- 
fected pleasure  to  their  simple  menial  souls. 

He  found  Tomkins  in  his  bedroom,  apparently  no 
less  pleased  to  see  him.  His  bath  was  ready  for  him 
after  his  dusty  journey,  fresh  underlinen  and  another 
suit  of  clothes  were  set  out  ready  for  him  to  wear. 
He  felt  that  it  was  indeed  homelike.  The  admirable 
tea  and  fresh  cream  and  his  chef's  cakes  deepened 
the  feeling.  He  lighted  a  cigar  and  set  out  to  find 
Elizabeth,  feeling  extraordinarily  refreshed  and  in  a 
fine  exaltation  of  spirit. 

His  spirits  were  somewhat  dashed  to  find  that  she 
was  not  in  the  dell,  and  they  sank  still  lower  when 
she  did  not  come  to  it.  He  waited  for  her  in  the  dell, 
or  on  the  path  through  the  wood  to  the  village,  till 
half  past  six.  He  returned  to  dinner  in  a  gloomy 
mood,  which  did  not  lighten  till  he  had  come  to  the 
sweets,  and  the  waxing  hope  that  he  would  presently 
see  her  cheered  him.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that 
she  might  be  ill. 


28o  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Has  everything  been  going  right  in  the  village?" 
he  said  to  Jenkinson. 

"Yes,  your  Grace,"  said  Jenkinson. 

"I  thought  Hibbert  said  that  Mr.  Carton  was  ill," 
said  James  Whitaker. 

"Oh,  no,  your  Grace.  I  saw  him  walking  through 
the  village  with  Miss  Carton  only  this  afternoon,  and 
he  was  looking  quite  all  right." 

James  Whitaker  breathed  easily  again ;  but  he  won- 
dered why  she  had  not  come  to  the  dell  before  dinner. 
She  must  have  seen  his  car  come  through  the  village. 
Perhaps,  however,  she  had  been  out,  paying  a  visit 
to  her  friend,  Cissie  Wyse. 

In  his  impatience  he  was  in  the  dell  at  ten  minutes 
to  nine.  She  was  not  there.  After  a  long  while  the 
church  clock  struck  nine.  At  five  minutes  past  his 
heart  began  to  sink,  and  it  went  on  sinking.  Then 
suddenly  at  about  the  quarter  past  it  leaped  into  his 
mouth,  and  he  thrilled  to  a  faint  rustle  in  the  path. 

In  a  few  seconds  Elizabeth  stood  in  the  entrance  to 
the  glade,  bright  in  the  moonlight  against  the  dark 
tree-trunks  which  framed  her. 

He  sprang  forward,  caught  her  off  her  feet  and 
hugged  and  kissed  her.  She  was  passive  in  his  arms, 
returning  his  kisses,  for  perhaps  ten  seconds.  Then 
she  thrust  herself  out  of  them  and  cried  indignantly : 

"Why  didn't  you  write  to  me?" 

"I  never  thought  of  it,"  he  said  truthfully. 

"You  never  thought  of  it?"  she  cried  in  amazement. 

"No.  I  was  only  going  to  be  away  three  days,  you 
know." 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  281 

"And  didn't  you  think  I  should  be  wanting  to  hear 
from  you?" 

"No;  not  in  that  little  time." 

"Well,  you  are  the  most  extraordinary  person!" 
she  cried,  throwing  out  her  hands  in  a  gesture  of  help- 
lessness. "There  was  I — expecting  a  letter  by  every 
post.  And  no  letter  came.  And  I  ought  to  have  had 
a  letter — I  had  a  right  to  a  letter — a  love-letter." 

"Of  course  you  ought,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  lively 
contrition. 

"I've  never  had  a  love-letter,"  she  said  plaintively. 

"And  I've  never  written  one,"  he  said. 

"You've  never  written  a  love-letter!"  she  cried,  in 
a  fresh  amazement.  "Well — I  give  it  up!" 

She  knew  that  he  was  speaking  the  truth;  no  one 
could  lie  in  that  tone. 

"It  was  a  shame  to  disappoint  you  like  that,"  he 
said,  putting  his  arm  round  her  again. 

He  kissed  her  and  drew  her  across  the  glade,  sat 
down  on  the  bank  in  the  shadow,  drew  her  down  on 
to  his  knee  and  kissed  her  again.  He  was  deeply  an- 
noyed with  himself  that  he  had  disappointed  her. 

She  nestled  against  him  with  a  sigh  of  content, 
and  said  in  a  yet  more  plaintive  tone:  "Everything 
has  gone  wrong  while  you  were  away.  It  wasn't 
only  that  you  didn't  write,  but  people  have  started  to 
talk  about  my  meeting  you;  and  Cissie  Wyse  tells 
me  that  they're  saying  the  most  horrible  things." 

"Hang  the  slanderous  brutes !"  he  growled  savagely. 

"And  papa  has  forbidden  me  to  meet  you  any  more. 
Not  that  I  can  obey  him,  of  course;  but  it's  perfectly 


282  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

beastly  for  him,  having  people  warning  him  and 
sneering,  and  all  that." 

He  was  very  angry  that  they  should  be  slandering 
her,  and  he  held  her  tighter  to  him  while  he  consid- 
ered the  best  means  of  stopping  it. 

"This  has  got  to  be  stopped,"  he  said. 

"You  can't  stop  the  people  about  here  gossiping," 
said  Elizabeth  in  a  hopeless  tone. 

He  was  silent  again,  thinking  hard.  It  was  grow- 
ing more  and  more  unbearable  that  she  should  be 
hurt  by  these  malicious  brutes.  He  had  not  expected 
to  be  hurried  in  this  way,  but  he  was  hardly  sorry 
to  be  hurried. 

"There's  one  way  of  stopping  them,"  he  said. 

"What's  that?"  she  said,  not  hopefully. 

"By  being  married." 

"It  wouldn't  be  any  use  my  telling  people  we  were 
engaged.  They  simply  wouldn't  believe  it.  It  isn't 
as  though  you  were  merely  a  duke,  but  you  have  such 
a  bad  character,"  she  said. 

"But  if  we  actually  were  married,  they'd  have  to  be- 
lieve it,"  he  said  firmly. 

"I  suppose  they  would,"  she  said  in  a  somewhat 
spiritless  tone. 

"But  don't  you  want  to  be  married  ?"  he  cried. 

She  seemed  to  hesitate ;  then  she  said :  "We're  very 
happy  as  we  are." 

"I'm  not,"  he  said  quickly.  "I  don't  see  half  enough 
of  you.  I  want  to  be  able  to  see  you  and  talk  to  you 
all  the  time." 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  283 

"But  it's  very  nice  meeting  like  this,"  she  said.  "I 
like  it  somehow — nobody  knowing." 

"But  they  do  know,"  he  said  quickly. 

"They  don't  know  when  and  where ;  and  being  mar- 
ried is  such  a  serious  thing." 

"But  I  thought  you  wanted  to  be  married!  That 
you  wanted  to  be  a  duchess !"  he  cried  in  some  aston- 
ishment. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  do.  I  do  really.  Only — only — I've 
grown  rather  afraid  of  you,  you  know,"  she  said 
slowly. 

"Well,  you  haven't  any  need  to  be;  you  know  you 
haven't.  It's  I  who  am  afraid  of  you — really,"  he 
said;  and  he  crushed  her  to  him. 

"It  feels  like  it,"  she  said,  laughing  faintly. 

"Oh,  we  must  be  married — we  must  really — say 
we  will,"  he  said  in  a  pleading  tone. 

This  new  reluctance  in  her  was  a  goad  to  him. 

She  hesitated ;  then  he  felt  her  quiver,  and  she  said : 
"Very  well — if  we  must,  we  must.  And  it's  got  to 
be  that,  or  not  seeing  each  other  at  all  after  a  while. 
My  father  really  would  stop  it  in  time.  He  is  so 
obstinate;  and  people  have  really  frightened  him 
about  me." 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said;  and  he  kissed  her. 

"There's  one  good  thing:  we  shall  have  to  be  mar- 
ried quietly — without  any  fuss,  since  your  brother 
died  so  lately.  I  do  hate  all  that  marriage  fuss.  And 
I  suppose  we  can't  be  married  for  at  least  three 
months." 


284  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"Oh,  can't  we?"  he  said  sharply.  "What's  the  good 
of  being  a  duke  if  you  can't  marry  when  you  want 
to,  because  a  brother  who  always  disliked  you  happens 
to  die?" 

"But  surely  three  months  is  quite  soon  enough," 
she  said. 

"Oh,  no;  it  isn't!"  he  cried.  "With  people  talking 
like  this  a  fortnight's  quite  long  enough  to  wait." 

"A  fortnight!  But  I  haven't  any  clothes!"  she 
cried. 

"Well,  look  here:  we  can  get  over  that.  Suppose 
we  spend  our  honeymoon  at  Tilcombe  Grange.  It's 
a  little  place  of  mine  on  the  coast  of  South  Devon, 
right  on  the  cliff.  I  don't  remember  it,  of  course; 
but  there's  a  picture  of  it  in  the  pink  drawing-room, 
and  it  looks  very  nice  indeed.  We  might  stay  there 
a  fortnight,  and  then  go  to  London  for  a  fortnight. 
You  could  get  lots  of  clothes  in  a  fortnight  in  London. 
Then  we  could  go  on  to  Paris  and  Berlin  and  Vienna, 
and  on  to  Italy  in  the  autumn." 

"Oh,  it  would  be  splendid !"  she  cried.  "With  you, 
too!" 

"It  certainly  wouldn't  be  splendid  without  you'' 
he  said.  "Then  that's  settled." 

He  heaved  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 

But  when,  later,  they  parted  at  the  gate  at  the  end 
of  the  wood,  he  walked  slowly  back  to  the  Abbey 
somewhat  troubled  in  spirit  that  he  had  so  committed 
himself.  But  he  had  not  been  able  to  endure  that  she 
should  be  hurt  by  the  slanders  of  their  neighbors,  and 
her  reluctance  to  consent  to  marry  him  had  set  him 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  285 

fancying  that  she  was  cooling.  He  perceived  now  that 
the  fancy  was  unfounded,  that  her  seeming  coolness 
was  the  result  of  their  three  days'  separation,  which 
had,  for  the  while,  let  a  veil  fall  between  them.  But 
there  must  be  no  more  of  these  separations :  the  fancy 
that  her  ardor  was  lessening  had  been  too  painful.  They 
must  marry;  and  at  once.  There  was  nothing  what- 
ever to  be  gained  by  waiting.  He  was  glad  to  be 
acting  once  more  on  his  own  initiative. 

How  small  a  part  had  his  will  played  in  the  matter 
after  that  initial  impulse,  when  he  stood  dazed  beside 
the  stricken  duke,  to  seize  the  chance  the  lightning 
had  given  him  of  enjoying  a  real  holiday  for  three 
days,  free  from  all  care  for  the  morrow.  After  that 
impulse  he  had  been  a  mere  puppet  in  the  hands  of 
the  molder  of  events.  He  wondered  whether  that 
initial  impulse  had  been  inspired  into  him  by  that 
molder. 

Presently  the  image  of  Elizabeth  withdrew  his  mind 
from  these  speculations.  He  was  glad  that  he  had 
committed  himself  to  marrying  her.  After  all,  it  did 
not  commit  him  to  remaining  Duke  of  Lanchester; 
they  could  always  disappear  together  when  the  time 
came  to  do  so  safely.  He  never  doubted  Elizabeth 
for  a  moment;  when  that  time  came,  she  would  go 
with  a  brave  spirit. 

But  when,  next  morning,  he  was  awakened  early 
by  the  singing  of  the  birds,  and  looked  out  over  the 
beautiful  valley  gleaming  with  the  reaches  of  the 
Wyper,  golden  in  the  rays  of  the  low  sun,  he  thrilled 
with  the  sense  that  here  was  indeed  his  home;  and 


286  WHITAKER'S   DUKEDOM 

he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  chafe  at  the  compul- 
sion which  kept  him  in  it. 

He  sank  back  on  to  his  pillow  with  a  sigh  of 
pleasure ;  and  as  he  composed  himself  to  sleep  again, 
he  told  himself  drowsily  that  there  must  be  plenty  of 
valuable  social  and  political  work  he  could  do  by  way 
of  payment  for  his  tenure  of  the  dukedom,  even  as 
he  had  earned  his  ducal  holiday  by  improving  the 
villages  on  the  estate  and  ridding  the  Dukes  of  Lan- 
chester  of  their  racing-stable.  This  work  he  could 
do  as  no  ordinary  man  could.  It  was  true  that  he 
would  be  hampered  at  first  by  his  bad  reputation;  but 
he  was  sure  that  it  would  not  take  a  duke  nearly  so 
long  to  live  down  a  bad  reputation  as  it  would  a  com- 
moner. 

He  had  no  intention,  however,  of  getting  to  this 
work  forthwith ;  he  would  take  his  holiday  first,  trav- 
eling with  Elizabeth,  and  rest  himself  thoroughly  after 
the  years  of  sordid  struggle  in  the  malodorous  Ham- 
mersmith shop.  He  would  come  to  this  new  valuable 
work  refreshed  and  eager,  with  a  clear  head. 

He  rose  and  breakfasted  cheerfully.  Elizabeth  was 
to  do  her  best  to  escape  to  meet  him  in  the  dell  at 
eleven;  and  they  were  to  discuss  his  interview  with 
her  father.  The  thought  of  the  interview  did  not 
trouble  him  at  all;  as  Duke  of  Lanchester  he  was 
behaving  in  the  most  honorable  fashion ;  he  took  it 
that  Mr.  Carton  would  be  rejoiced  that  Elizabeth 
should  make  so  excellent  a  marriage. 

After  breakfast  he  took  his  way  to  the  office  to 
?earn  whether  any  matter  needed  his  personal  atten- 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  28* 

i 

tion,  wondering  how  his  three  days'  absence  had  af- 
fected his  steward,  whether  he  were  again  in  the  mood 
to  revolt. 

It  seemed  not:  at  his  entrance  Mr.  Brinkman  rose 
and  washed  his  hands  at  him  with  his  old,  more  than 
amiable  smile.  He  explained  the  matters  on  which  he 
desired  definite  instructions,  with  the  most  deferential 
air.  He  even  answered  James  Whitaker's  questions 
about  the  improvements  in  an  amiable  tone,  quite  free 
from  the  contemptuous  bitterness  with  which  he  had 
at  first  spoken  of  them.  James  Whitaker,  wearing 
his  usual  office  scowl,  watched  him  closely.  His  words 
and  tones  rang  genuine  enough;  and  it  seemed  that 
he  was  truly  coming  to  the  temper  of  the  dog  that 
licks  the  hand  that  beats  it.  James  Whitaker  felt  quite 
sure  that  as  long  as  he  remained  Duke  of  Lanchester, 
he  had  very  little  to  fear  from  his  steward. 

He  came  away  from  the  office  therefore  very  well 
content  with  him,  and  betook  himself  through  a  win- 
dow of  the  blue  drawing-room  on  to  the  terrace  to 
finish  his  cigar  in  the  most  pleasant  surroundings.  He 
had  not  been  there  long  when  a  footman  came  to  in- 
form him  that  Mr.  Carton  had  called  to  see  him,  and 
was  in  the  pink  drawing-room. 

James  Whitaker's  first  thought  was  that  this  inter- 
view might  make  him  late  at  his  tryst  with  Elizabeth ; 
and  that  was  annoying  since  Millicent's  funeral  was 
at  two  o'clock;  and  he  must  be  there.  Then  he  re- 
flected that  Elizabeth  would  probably  know  that  her 
father  was  coming  to  him;  and  he  was  glad  that  he 
was  going  to  have  it  over  and  done  with.  He  had 


288  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

far  too  strong  a  sense  of  his  ducal  position  to  suppose 
that  the  affair  would  not  go  the  way  he  wished. 

He  had  seen  Mr.  Carton  once  or  twice,  as  he  was 
motoring  through  the  village,  and  had  waved  a  gra- 
cious hand  at  him.  But  he  had  never  spoken  to  him. 
He  merely  knew  him  as  a  dark  lanky  figure,  with 
rather  long  black  hair,  moving  with  a  long  stride  at 
a  pace  which  made  his  coat  tails  hang  well  out  behind 
him.  Elizabeth  had  now  and  again  spoken  of  him; 
and  he  had  gathered  that  he  was  an  impulsive,  obsti- 
nate man,  hard  at  times  to  manage. 

As  he  came  into  the  drawing-room  he  found  him 
standing  at  the  end  of  it  in  the  full  light  of  the  win- 
'dows.  He  had  an  impression  that  at  the  sound  of  his 
approaching  footsteps  he  had  gone  to  this  center  of 
the  stage  and  struck  an  impressive  attitude. 

He  came  down  the  room  with  a  welcoming  air,  held 
but  his  hand,  and  said :  "How  are  you,  Mr.  Carton  ?" 

Mr.  Carton  shook  it  somewhat  limply,  and  said  in 
a  deep  voice :  "How  do  you  do,  your  Grace  ?" 

James  Whitaker  saw  that  he  had  very  fine  large, 
expressive,  brown  eyes,  rather  high  up  in  a  long  face, 
and  long,  full,  sensitive  lips.  His  long  nose  was  some- 
what roughly  molded  and  the  left  eyebrow  was  higher 
than  the  right.  His  narrow,  pointed,  receding  chin 
spoiled  the  lower  part  of  his  face  and  gave  him,  indeed, 
the  air  of  a  man  hard  to  manage. 

He  gazed  at  James  Whitaker  with  his  head  high, 
even  thrown  a  little  back,  and  with  a  very  earnest, 
stern  eye.  James  Whitaker  met  his  gaze  without 
flinching  and  waited  for  him  to  speak. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  289 

"I  have  come  on  an  unpleasant  errand,  your  Grace," 
he  said  in  deep  reproving  tones,  and  paused. 

James  Whitaker  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  him 
with  an  air  of  mild  inquiry. 

In  a  higher,  less  impressive  tone  Mr.  Carton  contin- 
ued :  "I  have  learned  that  your  Grace  has  been  meet- 
ing my  daughter  Elizabeth  clandestinely,  and  I  am 
very  deeply  annoyed  about  it." 

"It  wasn't  particularly  clandestinely,"  said  James 
Whitaker  mildly. 

"If  secret  meetings — in  the  heart  of  a  wood — are 
not  clandestine,  I  should  like  to  know  what  are!"  cried 
Mr.  Carton  with  some  heat. 

"Oh,  but  we  didn't  meet  only  in  the  wood.  We've 
fished  together  in  the  park  (at  least,  Elizabeth  fished 
and  I  looked  on)  for  hours — quite  openly — and  she 
has  been  here  to  tea — quite  openly.  There  was  nothing 
secret  about  our  meetings;  we  just  met  in  the  most 
convenient  way.  In  fact  it  was  the  only  way  to  meet, 
since  we  don't  seem  to  move  in  the  same  society," 
said  James  Whitaker  in  his  most  matter-of-fact  tone. 

"Elizabeth  has  been  here  to  tea?"  cried  Mr.  Car- 
ton. "Then  she  has  been  more  indiscreet — far  more 
indiscreet  than  I  had  supposed.  It  makes  the  matter 
worse — much  worse.  Your  Grace  has  compromised  her 
more  seriously  than  I  had  supposed.  And  I  will  tell 
you  frankly  that  deliberately  to  have  compromised  a 
young  and  inexperienced  girl  like  Elizabeth  is  dis- 
graceful— most  disgraceful." 

"But  really  I  don't  see  what  else  I  was  to  do.  You 
couldn't  expect  me  to  marry  a  girl  without  knowing 


290  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

anything  about  her.  Of  course  I  might  have  come 
to  you  and  asked  your  permission  to  pay  my  addresses 
to  her.  But  nobody  does  that  nowadays,  I  think,"  said 
James  Whitaker  amiably. 

"Marrying  her?  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  are 
really  seriously  proposing  to  marry  her?"  cried  Mr. 
Carton  in  a  tone  of  great  surprise. 

"Of  course  I  am.     We  are  definitely  engaged." 

"Well — of  course  this  puts  a  different  complexion 
on  the  matter,"  said  Mr.  Carton  more  gently.  "Evi- 
dently you  did  not  intend  to  compromise  her.  But 
marriage — marriage  with  you  is  quite  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, your  Grace." 

"Why  ?"  said  James  Whitaker,  surprised  in  his  turn. 

"A  man  of  your  Grace's  reputation  is  not  fit  to 
marry  a  young  girl,"  said  Mr.  Carton  very  sternly. 

"Oh,  hang  my  reputation!"  said  James  Whitaker 
impatiently.  "I'm  not  responsible  for  my  reputation. 
It's  just  the  result  of  a  lot  of  idle  and  malicious  gos- 
sip." 

"I  fear  not — I  fear  that  it's  founded  on  a  great 
deal  more  than  that.  To  give  only  two  instances, 
there  are  Lady  Cubbington  and  Lady  Middlemore. 
Your  relations  with  them  are  not  by  any  means  merely 
a  matter  of  idle  and  malicious  gossip — not  by  any 
means,"  said  Mr.  Carton  very  sternly. 

It  seemed  to  James  Whitaker  that  he  was  working 
himself  into  the  part  of  an  accusing  angel  and  en- 
joying it. 

"I  can't  help  what  people  say  about  it;  but  I  give 
•yov  my  word  of  honor  that  there  are  not  and  never 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  291 

have  been  any  serious  relations  between  those  ladies 
and  myself,"  said  James  Whitaker  with  perfect  truth- 
fulness. 

Mr.  Carton  shook  his  head,  and  said :  "As  a  man 
of  honor  your  Grace  feels  bound  to  say  that.  But 
your  denial  has  no  weight  with  me  for  that  very 
reason.  I  would  sooner  see  Elizabeth  in  her  shroud 
than  married  to  a  man  of  your  character." 

He  rolled  out  the  phrase  grandly,  in  a  most  im- 
pressive tone,  and  paused  for  the  outburst  of  fury. 

It  did  not  come.  James  Whitaker's  eyes  sparkled 
in  sudden  aggravation.  To  his  simple  nature  theatri- 
cality off  the  stage  was  in  the  highest  degree  abhor- 
rent. His  fingers  itched  to  smack  Mr.  Carton.  For 
the  moment  he  felt  that  it  was  almost  a  duty  to  try 
to  cure  such  a  theatrical  person  of  his  staginess.  But 
the  thought  that  he  was  Elizabeth's  father  checked 
him;  he  would  not  take  the  smacking  as  Brinkman 
had  taken  it;  and  he  had  no  desire  to  have  a  serious 
quarrel  with  him.  Besides,  Elizabeth  herself  would 
be  very  angry  indeed.  She  was  used  to  her  father; 
possibly  she  did  not  even  perceive  his  theatricality ;  she 
only  knew  that  he  was  hard  to  manage. 

He  gulped  down  his  irritation  and  said  in  a  pacific 
tone :  "Well,  if  you  feel  like  that,  you  feel  like  that, 
and  there  is  no  more  to  be  said  about  it.  But,  of 
course,  it's  for  Elizabeth  to  settle." 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,  your  Grace!  What  does  a 
child  like  that  understand  about  human  depravity?" 
cried  Mr.  Carton.  "Why,  she  probably  knows  noth- 
ing at  all  about  you  and  these — these  ladies" 


292  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"She  knows  all  there  is  to  know.  I'm  quite  sure 
of  that,"  said  James  Whitaker  calmly.  "I've  told  you 
there  isn't  anything  in  it;  she's  talked  to  me  about 
those  ladies,  and  I  think  she's  satisfied  about  it." 

"It  was  no  subject  for  her  to  discuss ;  but  of  course 
you  would  spare  her  the  truth.  Indeed,  if  she  knew 
it,  she  would  shrink  from  you  with  a  pure  woman's 
loathing,"  said  Mr.  Carton,  again  rolling  out  the 
phrase  with  a  splendid  air. 

James  Whitaker  ground  his  teeth  softly;  then  he 
said:  "Well,  there's  not  much  use  going  on  discuss- 
ing the  matter.  Elizabeth  has  got  to  settle  it." 

"Indeed  she  has  not.  For  the  next  three  months, 
at  any  rate,  she  can  not  marry  without  my  consent; 
and  always — always  she  will  be  guided  by  me  in  the 
serious  and  important  matter  of  the  choice  of  a  hus- 
band." 

"Well,  well:  we'll  let  it  go  at  that,"  said  James 
Whitaker  in  an  indulgent  tone.  "I'm  only  pointing 
out  that  it's  a  waste  of  time  for  us  to  discuss  it." 

Mr.  Carton  looked  at  him  with  a  somewhat  balked 
air.  The  interview  had  not  been  so  satisfying  as  he 
had  expected.  He  had  come  prepared  with  some 
fine  denunciations  of  the  duke's  conduct  in  compro- 
mising Elizabeth  by  clandestine  meetings  and  had 
found  them  unneeded  since  the  duke  proposed  to 
marry  her.  He  had  expected  the  duke  to  fly  into  a 
fine  fury  when  he  found  himself  balked  and  rebuked 
by  an  unbending  scathing  moralist.  James  Whitaker's 
amiable  indulgence  had  prevented  him  making  nearly 


WHITAKER'S   DUKEDOM  293 

as  much,  emotionally,  as  might  have  been  made  of  the 
interview;  and  he  was  annoyed  with  him. 

"Well,  since  you  Grace  quite  understands  my  posi- 
tion in  the  matter,  and,  furthermore,  that  there  is  no 
chance  whatever  of  my  being  stirred  from  it,  there 
is  no  point  in  our  continuing  the  interview,"  he  said 
stiffly,  moving  toward  the  door. 

"Quite  so — quite  so,"  said  James  Whitaker  amiably ; 
and  he  opened  it. 

He  walked  across  the  hall  with  him  to  the  front 
door,  shook  his  stiff  hand  with  friendly  warmth,  and 
bade  him  good-by.  Mr.  Carton  walked  down  the 
steps  slowly  and  stiffly,  his  head  well  in  the  air.  He 
still  felt  himself,  and  even  more  strongly  now  that  he 
was  free  of  James  Whitaker's  unperturbed  amiability, 
the  scathing  moralist. 

James  Whitaker  was  indeed  unperturbed :  he  felt 
that  Elizabeth  and  himself  were  far  too  deeply  in 
love  to  be  greatly  affected  by  anything  any  third 
person,  even  her  father,  might  say  or  do.  But  as  he 
took  his  way  to  the  dell  his  natural  stubbornness  began 
to  stir  at  the  opposition,  which,  considering  his  rank, 
he  felt  to  be  most  unreasonable.  At  the  moment  he 
felt  very  strongly  that  a  duke  had  almost  a  natural 
right  to  another,  less  exacting,  moral  standard  than 
common  men. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  interview  with  Mr.  Carton  had  made  him 
a    few   minutes   late;   and   he    found    Elizabeth 
awaiting  him  in  the  dell.    In  her  pleasure  at  his  return 
to  her  from  London  she  was  radiant;  she  had  for- 
gotten his  neglect  to  write  to  her. 

He  sat  down  beside  her  and  greeted  her  with  the 
warmth  her  beauty  demanded.  Then  he  said  : 

"I've  just  had  an  interview  with  your  father." 

"Have  you?  What  did  he  say?"  she  said  quickly 
and  a  little  anxiously. 

"Well,  he  wasn't  very  complimentary  to  me.  He 
insisted  that  I  was  a  scoundrel;  and  there  was  no 
persuading  him  that  I  wasn't." 

"No.  When  papa  does  get  an  idea  into  his  head, 
there's  no  getting  it  out  of  it,"  said  Elizabeth  in  the 
tone  of  one  who  has  suffered. 

"That's  what  struck  me,"  he  said.  "But  the  nui- 
sance is  that  he  refuses  to  let  you  marry  me.  He  won't 
hear  of  it." 

"Bother!"  said  Elizabeth,  frowning. 

"Of  course  he  can  only  stop  you  marrying  for 
the  next  three  months.  You'll  be  of  age  then.  But 
it's  such  a  long  time.  I  can't  wait  three  months,"  he 
said  in  a  very  plaintive  tone. 

294 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  295 

Elizabeth  nestled  closer  to  him  compassionately; 
then  she  said:  "But  it  isn't  only  that  three  months 
is  a  long  time ;  but  at  the  end  of  three  months  he'll  be 
quite  as  keen,  or  even  keener,  on  my  not  marrying 
you;  and  we  shall  be  no  better  off." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  wouldn't  marry  me  unless 
your  father  consented?"  he  cried. 

"No:  I  don't  say  that.  But  it  would  be  nicer  to 
have  his  consent,"  she  said.  Then  she  continued 
slowly  and  thoughtfully:  "Besides,  you  don't  know 
papa.  He's  really  awfully  clever  at  getting  his  own 
way;  and  if  he's  made  up  his  mind  to  stop  our  be- 
ing married  and  has  three  months  to  work  at  it,  he 
very  likely  will  stop  it." 

"But  how  could  he?"  cried  James  Whitaker. 

"Oh,  he  might  find  some  way  of  making  us  quarrel. 
He  might  set  me  against  you — somehow.  You  don't 
know  papa.  He  is  so  clever,"  she  said  in  a  despondent 
tone. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  he'd  make  you  unhappy — 
just  to  get  his  own  way?"  said  James  Whitaker  with 
a  touch  of  incredulity  in  his  tone. 

"Of  course  not.  He'd  make  me  unhappy  just  to 
prevent  you  making  me  unhappy  when  I  was  married 
to  you." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  James  Whitaker  thoughtfully. 

And  then,  quite  suddenly,  he  saw  how  to  turn  this 
ingenuity  of  his  father-in-law  to  his  own  advantage. 

"Look  here :  we  can't  run  a  risk  like  this,"  he  said 
quickly  and  earnestly.  "I  can't  have  you  made  un- 
happy; and  I  don't  want  to  be  made  unhappy  myself 


296  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

' — about  you  of  all  things.  And  the  important  thing 
is  that  whatever  your  father  thinks  about  me,  you 
trust  me.  Don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Elizabeth  with  decision. 

"Well,  then,  let  us  be  married  right  away.  I  know 
that  you  can  get  a  special  marriage  license  which  en- 
ables you  to  be  married  anywhere  and  at  once.  I'll 
go  up  to  London  this  afternoon  and  get  one;  and  to- 
morrow we'll  just  elope." 

"Elope?  I  thought  that  eloping  was  a  thing  of  the 
past,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  no :  not  with  motor-cars  handy,"  he  said.  "And 
when  once  your  father  is  faced  with  the  fact  that 
we're  actually  married,  he'll  probably  calm  down." 

"Yes;  you're  right  about  that:  he  does,"  she  said 
quickly ;  then  she  added  in  a  slower,  hesitating  voice : 
"It  would  be  rather  fun — eloping." 

The  desire  to  make  her  safely  his,  immediately,  had 
already  gripped  James  Whitaker ;  and  he  said : 

"It  would  be  a  great  deal  better  than  fun.  It  would 
be  a  splendid  thing  to  feel  that  we  belonged  absolutely 
to  each  other  and  couldn't  be  separated ;  and  we  really 
ought  to  act  quickly  before  your  father  gets  to  work. 
And,  besides  all  that,  I  do  so  want  to  have  you  always 
with  me." 

His  tone  was  urgent,  compelling;  and  there  was  a 
new  masterfulness  in  his  eyes.  She  found  it  hard 
to  meet  them. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  still  hesitating.  "But  I  haven't  any 
clothes." 

"You  can  get  them  afterward — in  Paris  if  you  like. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  297 

You've  plenty  to  be  married  very  quietly  in.  I  tell 
you  what:  we  could  be  married  at  Tilcombe  Rectory, 
and  go  on  to  the  Grange.  I'll  get  the  special  license 
this  afternoon;  we'll  motor  down  there  and  be  mar- 
ried to-morrow." 

"To-morrow!"  she  cried. 

"Yes.  If  we're  going  to  do  it  quickly,  let's  do  it 
really  quickly,"  he  said  with  yet  more  earnest  vehem- 
ence. "I  do  so  want  to  feel  that  you're  safely  mine. 
Don't  you  want  to  feel  that  you're  safe  too?" 

"Yes:  I  suppose  I  do,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Then  that  settles  it!"  he  cried  triumphantly;  and 
he  kissed  her  again  and  again. 

When  his  transports  had  somewhat  abated,  they 
discussed  the  method  of  her  flight  with  him.  She 
must  bring  with  her  some  clothes — clothes  for  a  week 
at  any  rate;  and  they  must  start  some  hours  before 
Mr.  Carton  learned  of  the  elopement.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  Cissie  Wyse  was  the  best  person  to  help 
them  in  this;  and  Elizabeth  agreed  with  him.  She 
could  take  some  of  her  clothes  to  Longmeadow  Farm 
that  morning,  some  more  in  the  afternoon,  some  more 
in  the  evening  and  some  more  next  morning.  She 
could  indeed  convey  thither  all  the  clothes  she  would 
need;  and  Cissie  would  lend  her  a  portmanteau.  At 
the  end  of  half  an  hour's  discussion  they  had  their 
way  clearly  mapped  out;  they  would  leave  the  final 
arrangements  till  the  evening,  for  if  he  had  to  get 
to  London  and  back  by  dinner-time,  the  sooner  he 
started  the  better.  He  bade  her  good-by  and  hurried 
back  to  the  Abbey. 


298  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

He  ordered  the  car  and  wrote  a  telegram  to  Messrs. 
Blenkinsop  and  Tudor,  bidding  them  meet  the  train 
at  Paddington  and  take  all  steps  to  enable  him  to 
obtain  without  delay  a  special  marriage  license.  He 
pocketed  the  telegram,  for  he  thought  that  if  he  des- 
patched it  from  Little  Lanchester,  Mr.  Carton  might 
easily  hear  its  contents  within  the  hour.  Then  he  took 
five  hundred  dollars  from  the  secret  drawer  of  the 
bureau,  and  going  down  to  the  hall,  told  Jenkinson 
that  he  was  motoring  down  to  Tilcombe  on  the  mor- 
row, and  bade  him  make  all  the  arrangements  to  take 
down  the  servants  he  usually  took  to  the  Grange,  so 
that  they  should  be  there  ready  to  receive  him  on  his 
arrival  late  in  the  afternoon. 

Hibbert  drove  him  to  Lanchester;  and  he  had  just 
time  to  despatch  his  telegram  and  catch  the  London 
express.  On  the  platform  at  Paddington  he  was  ac- 
costed by  Mr.  Tudor  himself,  who  told  him  that  he 
had  sent  on  the  managing  clerk  of  the  firm  to  inform 
the  officials  that  the  Duke  of  Lanchester  required  a 
special  marriage  license.  They  would  be  ready;  and 
he  would  obtain  it  as  quickly  as  possible.  James  Whit- 
aker,  using  his  hoarse  and  husky  voice,  thanked  him; 
and  they  bustled  into  a  taxicab. 

On  the  way,  James  Whitaker  learned  that  both 
the  contracting  parties  must  be  of  age,  or  he  would 
not  obtain  the  license.  Accordingly  when  they  came 
to  the  office,  he  added  four  months  to  the  age  of  Eliz- 
abeth. He  obtained  the  license  forthwith,  and  paid 
for  it  out  of  the  money  he  had  found  in  the  bureau, 
since  he  considered  it  to  be  distinctly  a  family  affair. 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  299 

When  he  came  out  of  the  office,  he  thanked  Mr. 
Tudor  warmly  for  having  helped  him  to  despatch  the 
business  so  quickly;  and  bade  him  good-by. 

As  he  was  getting  into  a  taxicab,  the  lawyer  said : 
"I  hope  your  Grace  hasn't  forgotten  the  wedding- 
ring." 

That  was  what  James  Whitaker  had  forgotten ;  but 
a  certain  compunction  held  him  from  buying  it  on 
his  way  to  Millicent's  funeral.  In  the  expansion  of  his 
nature  induced  by  the  ducal  life,  he  had  no  compunc- 
tion whatever  about  marrying  Elizabeth  the  day  after 
that  funeral,  for  it  was  so  long  since  Millicent  had 
counted  for  anything  in  his  life.  She  was  merely  a 
part  of  the  Hammersmith  nightmare;  and  even  in  that 
she  counted  for  little  more  than  old  Amy.  None  the 
less,  he  balked  at  buying  the  wedding-ring  before  her 
funeral. 

He  took  the  tube  to  Hammersmith  Broadway,  and 
reached  the  house  in  Watergate  Street  at  a  quarter 
to  two,  to  find  Millicent's  relations  eating  ham  sand- 
wiches and  drinking  sherry  in  the  parlor  behind  the 
shop.  He  went  up-stairs,  changed  into  his  ill-fitting 
Sunday  frock  coat  and  a  pair  of  shiny  black  trousers 
he  had  bought  second-hand  for  William  Ward's  fu- 
neral, and  joined  them.  They  were  all  very  gloomy 
and  decorous;  and  the  parlor  was  painfully  stuffy. 
He  was  once  more  plunged  into  the  nightmare;  and 
the  next  two  hours  passed  in  a  dismal  wretchedness. 

He  did  not  come  straight  back  to  the  house,  but 
made  the  changes  in  his  business  arrangements  neces- 


300  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

sitated  by  Millicent's  death,  appointing  Isabel  Ward 
his  attorney  to  receive  all  moneys  realized  by  the  sale 
of  the  house  and  business,  provide  for  old  Amy  out 
of  it,  and  send  the  remainder  to  him  in  America  when 
he  should  write  for  it.  Then  he  went  back,  changed 
into  his  tweed  suit,  and  came  out  of  the  house  in  a 
sudden  tingling  exhilaration:  he  was  done  with  the 
old  cramped,  dirty  life  for  good  and  all. 

He  had  now  to  buy  the  wedding-ring;  and  he  was 
glad  that  he  had  brought  five  hundred  dollars  with 
him.  He  had  to  buy  not  only  a  wedding-ring  for 
Elizabeth,  but  also  an  engagement  ring. 

After  paying  for  the  special  license  he  had  more 
than  three  hundred  dollars  left;  and  at  a  jeweler's  in 
Piccadilly  he  bought  a  sapphire  and  diamond  ring  for 
three  hundred  dollars,  which  seemed  to  him  of  as 
good  a  design  as  he  could  expect  in  a  piece  of  modern 
jewelry.  He  had  not  measured  Elizabeth's  finger;  but 
he  knew  that  his  signet  ring  fitted  her  third  finger,  for 
one  afternoon  she  had  idly  slipped  it  on  to  it ;  and  now 
it  served  as  a  measure.  Then  he  bought  the  wedding- 
ring.  That  done  he  had  tea  at  a  Bond  Street  tea-shop 
and  caught  the  five-fifteen  express  at  Paddington.. 
Hibbert  met  him  at  Lanchester  with  the  car;  and  he 
was  back  at  the  Abbey  before  seven. 

Elizabeth  came  to  the  dell  that  evening  with  an  un- 
certain mind.  Cissie  Wyse,  a  somewhat  timid  crea- 
ture, had  been  frightened  by  her  intention  of  eloping 
with  the  duke,  and  had  somewhat  shaken  her  resolu- 
tion. None  the  less  Elizabeth  had  conveyed  to  Long- 
meadow  Farm  the  clothes  she  would  need,  and  they 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  301 

were  already  packed  in  the  portmanteau  Cissie  had 
lent  her. 

She  might,  however,  have  changed  her  mind  about 
eloping  on  the  morrow,  had  not  James  Whitaker's 
plain  devotion  to  her  hardened  her  resolution,  and 
driven  away  her  doubts.  When  he  slipped  the  ring  on 
to  her  finger,  her  last  scruple  vanished;  she  was  as- 
sured that  she  was  doing  the  right  thing. 

They  were  late  parting,  or  rather  tearing  them- 
selves away  from  each  other,  that  night,  and  James 
Whitaker  was  some  time  getting  to  sleep  after  that. 
He  was  harassed  by  a  nervous  dread  lest  even  now 
something  might  go  wrong  and  rob  him  of  Elizabeth. 
It  was  quite  clear  to  him  now  that  it  was  Elizabeth 
he  wanted,  not  the  home,  or  the  pleasant  life,  or  the 
dukedom,  but  just  Elizabeth.  Had  it  not  been  for 
her,  he  would  before  this  have  started  for  America 
to  attempt  a  new  free  life.  He  told  himself  that 
with  her  in  the  place  of  Millicent,  he  could  even 
have  returned  to  the  Hammersmith  shop  and  have 
been  happy. 

However,  he  slept  at  last,  and  when  he  awoke  to 
find  the  bright  sunlight  streaming  through  his  win- 
dows, his  fear  had  vanished. 

As  they  had  arranged,  he  was  in  the  car  at  the  end 
of  the  garden  of  Longmeadow  Farm  at  twelve  o'clock, 
and  five  minutes  later  Elizabeth  and  Cissie  Wyse  came 
out  of  the  gate,  carrying  between  them  the  portman- 
teau. Elizabeth  was  rather  pale,  Cissie  flushed  with 
excitement.  James  Whitaker  sprang  from  the  car, 
took  the  portmanteau  from  them  and  put  it  beside  the 


302  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

astonished  Hibbert.  Then  he  shook  hands  with  the 
two  girls,  congratulating  them  in  a  cheerful  tone  on 
their  punctuality,  and  thanked  Cissie  Wyse  for  having 
helped  them.  The  two  girls  kissed,  and  bade  each 
other  good-by,  Cissie  now  tearful,  and  Elizabeth 
stepped  into  the  car.  He  shook  hands  with  Cissie 
and  said :  "It's  a  pity  that  you  can't  come  with  us.  and 
be  bridesmaid,"  bade  Hibbert  get  them  to  Marlbor- 
ough  in  time  for  lunch,  and  sprang  into  the  car. 

It  started,  and  when  it  came  round  a  bend  in  the 
road,  Elizabeth  turned  and  clung  to  him  for  a  breath, 
and  their  lips  met  in  a  long  kiss.  Then  they  sank 
back ;  she  put  on  a  pair  of  disguising  goggles,  and  they 
sat,  very  decorous,  but  holding  hands  under  the  rug. 

The  plunge  taken,  Elizabeth  was  presently  herself, 
keenly  alert,  enjoying  the  swift  passage  of  the  car 
and  the  beautiful  country  through  which  it  was  run- 
ning, talking  to  him  in  tones  of  a  new  tenderness. 
Thrilling  with  tenderness  and  triumph,  he  watched 
her  glowing  face,  and  for  a  long  while  could  hardly, 
in  the  turmoil  of  his  emotion,  talk  to  her  coherently. 

They  reached  Marlborough  at  half  past  one,  and 
the  stopping  of  the  car,  the  getting  out  of  it  and  going 
into  the  hotel,  brought  them  down  once  more  to  the 
plane  of  ordinary  life.  James  Whitaker  observed 
that  Hibbert  was  looking  gloomy,  and  guessed  his 
suspicions.  Therefore,  instead  of  despatching  himself 
the  telegram  he  had  written  to  Mr.  Appleton,  the 
rector  of  Tilcombe,  requesting  him  to  be  ready  to 
marry  them  quietly  between  six  and  seven  that  eve- 
ning, he  gave  it  to  Hibbert  to  despatch.  When,  after 


WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM  303 

a  delightful  lunch,  they  started  again,  the  clouds  had 
vanished  from  Hibbert's  face. 

They  had  tea  at  a  little  inn  at  Chard,  and  about  an 
hour  later  they  had  their  first  glimpse  of  the  sea.  At 
the  sight  of  it  Elizabeth's  clasp  tightened  on  his  hand. 

"Oh,  I  do  love  the  sea,"  she  said.  "I'm  so  glad 
we've  come  to  the  sea." 

"So  am  I.  But  any  place  with  you  would  satisfy 
me,"  he  said. 

They  were  not  long  reaching  Tilcombe,  and  at  the 
rectory  they  found  the  rector,  his  wife  and  his  daugh- 
ters awaiting  them  in  flushed  excitement.  The  rector 
suggested  that  they  could,  with  perfect  privacy,  be 
married  in  the  church,  and  Elizabeth  received  the  sug- 
gestion with  warm  approval.  Accordingly,  they  were 
married  in  the  church,  the  rector's  excited  daughters 
supporting  Elizabeth,  who  was  far  cooler  than  they, 
Hibbert  supporting  James  Whitaker. 

Elizabeth  came  out  of  the  church  pale ;  but  the  pale- 
ness passed  as  Hibbert  drove  them  through  the  village 
and  up  the  steep  road  to  the  Grange,  which  stood  on 
the  cliff  on  the  other  side  of  it.  At  the  sight  of  Eliza- 
beth, Jenkinson  lost  for  a  moment  his  admirable  calm ; 
but  he  had  recovered  it  before  the  footman  had  opened 
the  door  of  the  car. 

When  they  came  up  the  steps  into  the  hall,  James 
Whitaker  said:  "Hang  it,  I've  forgotten  this  place 
too !  I  was  hoping  I  should  remember  it.  Well,  you'll 
have  to  show  me  my  way  about,  Jenkinson." 

"That's  quite  nice,"  said  Elizabeth  joyfully.  "We 
shall  be  able  to  learn  it  together." 


304  WHITAKER'S    DUKEDOM 

"And  find  some  one  who  can  act  as  maid  to  her 
Grace  for  the  time  being,"  said  James  Whitaker. 

"Yes,  your  Grace.  There's  Mrs.  Whittick,  your 
Grace — the  head  gardener's  wife.  She's  had  experi- 
ence," said  Jenkinson. 

It  was  already  a  quarter  past  seven;  there  was  no 
time  to  explore  the  Grange  before  dinner  and  Mrs. 
Whittick  was  summoned  forthwith  to  wait  on  Eliza- 
beth. 

At  dinner  they  were  at  first  somewhat  constrained. 
In  the  circumstances  they  found  the  presence  of  Jen- 
kinson and  two  footmen  oppressive;  they  endured  it 
as  one  of  the  penalties  of  their  rank.  But  presently  the 
constraint  wore  off;  they  forgot  their  attendants  and 
were  at  their  ease.  The  thoughtful  Jenkinson  ha'd 
set  a  small  table  for  them  in  the  middle  window  of  the 
dining-room,  from  which  they  looked  down  on  the 
sea,  golden  in  the  setting  sun. 

After  dinner  they  took  their  coffee  on  a  little  ter- 
race at  the  end  of  the  left  wing,  a  terrace  on  the  edge 
of  the  cliff,  hidden  from  the  windows  of  the  house 
by  a  screen  of  tall  shrubs.  Talking  softly,  with  many 
silences,  they  saw  the  sun  sink  into  the  sea,  the  twi- 
light fade  and  the  stars  come  slowly  out. 

James  Whitaker's  mind  was  at  ease:  he  did  not 
believe  that  any  harm  could  come  to  Elizabeth  from 
his  holding  the  dukedom  till  such  a  time  as  the  danger 
from  Mr.  Brinkman  should  have  passed,  even  though 
it  might  be  years  before  he  could  safely  disappear. 
His  conscience  was  clear :  apart  from  his  sudden  whim, 


305 

when  he  was  unhinged  by  a  lightning-stroke,  to  be  a 
duke  for  three  days,  he  had  not  been  a  free  agent; 
he  had  been  forced  to  stay  duke ;  and  he  believed  that 
he  could,  by  good  work,  pay  for  the  position  as  long 
as  he  held  it. 

These  were  comforting  thoughts,  but  really  these 
were  not  important  things.  The  great  and  wonderful 
thing  was  that  he  had  Elizabeth.  He  drew  her  yet 
closer  to  him;  and  they  sat  silent  in  a  thrilling  con- 
tent. 

It  was  dark  now,  save  for  the  light  of  the  stars  and 
a  very  faint  brightness  on  the  western  edge  of  the 
sea.  Then  a  distant  clock,  chiming  a  half-hour, 
roused  them.  He  drew  her  to  her  feet  and  kissed  her ; 
and  they  walked  through  the  dim  scented  garden  to 
the  house.  When  they  came  on  to  the  central  lawn 
before  it,  they  found  the  whole  front  in  darkness, 
except  the  four  windows  of  their  rooms  on  the  first 
floor. 

"Oh,  it  does  look  nice  and  lonely,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"Yes,  that's  quite  as  it  should  be,"  he  said.  "You're 
not  afraid  to  be  alone  with  me?" 

"Certainly  not.    I'm  a  duchess  now,"  said  Elizabeth. 

The  Duke  of  Lanchester  laughed  gently. 


THE    END 


A     000  043  732     7 


